The Catfish
by Miss Dasti
Summary: Hermione spends her days at the Ministry keeping an eye on pardoned criminals - a tedious task that has her dying of boredom, until it surfaces that Lucius Malfoy may be running a massive Dark market empire, and it falls to her to prove his guilt. And how else to do it, but with a dash of Polyjuice and a hair off Narcissa Malfoy? Really, what could go wrong?
1. Chapter 1

Through the whole sorry ordeal Hermione maintained that none of it was _her _idea in the first place.

Not that it helped, in the end.

The conclusion of the War didn't tie up as many loose ends as she'd originally hoped. So much of her time and energy had been sapped by finishing Voldemort that a messy clean-up hadn't factored much in her vision of the future. Even now, five years later, the Ministry continued to struggle with a high circulation of dark artifacts, loose killers, and—perhaps the most infuriating of all—exonerated criminals that needed watching.

There was simply not enough room in Azkaban for every sordid Voldemort-supporter that hadn't fled following the Final Battle; the ones who had come quietly and caused the least damage had been pardoned. It made Hermione's blood boil to think about, but she was consoled when she learned that, at least, they would all be kept under heavy surveillance.

She was consoled _at first_, anyway.

But then—after climbing up through the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures and graduating to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement—the happy duty of criminal surveillance landed in _her _lap, and suddenly it wasn't so much a comfort as an utter nuisance.

Who better to watch the rabble, really, than Hermione-workaholic-Granger? She hadn't stopped drudging a day since she finished her N.E.W.T.'s and followed Harry into the Ministry. Her first job came to her the day after graduation, nearly automatically. Her current position in the DMLE was almost easier to attain and she hadn't even taken a day to settle in. She'd magicked her belongings to her new office early in the morning and had hardly left the place since.

At first she'd been ecstatic, working in wizarding law. _Finally_, after years of slogging through all the bureaucracy surrounding the regulation of magical creatures, she'd be able to tackle a few laws a little closer to her heart: the ones that stifled Muggle-borns, just like herself.

She'd be able to make real change here, do actual good for thousands of suppressed witches and wizards—she could alter the tide of _history_.

But she quickly realized that nobody was particularly interested in revising those old laws. In fact, everyone in the DMLE was currently preoccupied with the quarter of the population that may or may not rise up in a tsunami of Darkness again.

Really, did nobody know how to prioritize?

So, rather than bettering the world, Hermione ended up spending her first year in the DMLE keeping tabs on the likes of Jiminy Larson, an ex-Snatcher and an all-around scumbag that managed to just survive his parole before breaking into a pet shop and doing unsavory things to a rabbit. The poor creature made a full recovery but had to have a memory charm performed on it so it could go on living. Hermione made sure he went to Azkaban for the maximum possible sentence. Having watched him for a year, she'd come to really hate his stupid, cock-eyed face and was glad to see him locked away as he should've been from the start. Her other charges were shaped in the same repulsive mold.

As if sitting around monitoring the gross underbelly of the wizarding world wasn't torture enough, things in Hermione's personal life weren't going so brilliantly, either. She'd spent five fragile months engaged to Ron before she finally panicked and broke it off. They fought too much and too often, and their cohabitation made it abundantly clear that she was expected to be a surrogate mother to him, something she never wanted in a marriage.

The breakup, at first, couldn't have been uglier. But eventually Ron surprised her: after only sixteen months of angry silence they were able to have a civil conversation and reestablish a tenuous friendship. She knew Harry and Ginny were relieved that they were at least back on speaking terms, but it was still quite depressing that things would never be the same between the four of them.

No more gallivanting about as a happy quartet, no more double dates over lunch or spontaneous trips abroad…

There followed a bit of a dry spell after Ron—that being the understatement of the century. Sure, there'd been a string of blind dates courtesy of a well-meaning but terribly deluded Molly Weasley (who still treated Hermione like a daughter even though things hadn't worked with her son), but each one had gone to hell. Really, really gone to _hell_.

Hermione couldn't remember a time in her life when she'd eaten as much ice cream or sobbed over as many bad romance films.

One of her potential suitors had, for no apparent reason, shown up in a bright red cape and his drawers on the outside of his pants. Another had asked for a foot-massage right there in their box at the opera. Yet another had tried to convince her he was a star Quidditch player and had rolled in wearing his "professional uniform" to prove it; she might've believed him, except that Ginny _actually _played on the Holyhead Harpies and Hermione had met the whole team just the week before, and there still wasn't a single wizard on it. When she pointed this out, he'd made a grand exit out of the restaurant window, got jammed and had to be removed by the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.

One of the witches called to the scene recognized Hermione, and the next day the story was all over the Ministry.

It was so, so bad.

To cope, Hermione threw herself even more fiercely into her work. She had her nose in her reports first thing in the morning, looking them over while she brushed her teeth and drank her coffee. She broke away only for the occasional outing with Harry and Ginny, or Neville and Hannah, or Luna and Rolf—whichever couple felt like having a third wheel that day. She obsessed over details and had everything done weeks in advance.

She was getting tired.

Not just physically tired, either. No. At first that's all she thought it was—she assumed she needed to exercise more, keep a better watch on her diet. But even after she'd integrated a fanatical workout routine into her schedule, and cut out nearly all unhealthy foods from her life, the tiredness persisted. She started going to bed strictly at 8 o'clock every night, but sometimes she just laid awake, tossing and turning.

So she ran more, ate even healthier. Still no change—in fact the sleepless nights became even more numerous. She started taking herbal supplements to try and coax herself to bed, but nothing helped.

"Maybe you should be focusing on getting a little _less_ sleep, if you know what I mean," Ginny said.

Hermione looked up from the parchment folder she'd been eyeing under the table (her friends forbid her from working over lunch, but sometimes they let it slip if they couldn't actually see her at it). "What do you mean?"

Ginny raised her eyebrows, her hands clasped on her huge belly. This one would be her second; James had been born only a year before, and was now slobbering happily in the highchair at her elbow. "You _know_," she said mischievously. "Maybe you're relying too much on those workouts to tire you out. Maybe you should try something different."

"I _have_ been," Hermione fumed. "I told you, I've been doing those new crunches, the ones where you've got to lay on an incline with the barbells in your hands—"

"Maybe you should try getting a _workout partner_," Ginny said, a little louder, her eyebrows raised so far they nearly disappeared in her flaming hairline. She tilted her head forward, looking intently at Hermione.

It clicked. "Oh my God, Ginny," she huffed, going red to the roots of her frizzy hair. "That's—come on, that's the _last_ thing on my mind right now—"

"Well, maybe it shouldn't be," Ginny said. "I can't tell you how many times a good shag has put me to sleep, even if I'd been working the pitch all day—"

"Jesus Christ, _Ginny!"_ Hermione put her face in her hands and tried to rub the image out of her brain. It was simultaneously awkward and depressing. "Don't you think your mother's done enough damage on this front?"

"Hey, that fellow who wore the cape was supposed to be hung like a walrus," Ginny laughed. "No, I'm serious, I knew one of his ex's! Apparently he was great from behind." She raised her voice to talk over Hermione's wail of horror. "Oh come on, I'm only trying to help! Where's your sense of adventure?"

"I haven't got time for any of that," Hermione insisted. "I've got a presentation with the Minister coming up and I have to spend all day tomorrow following that sick Jacob Hanson around under the department's rubbishy Invisibility Cloak, and you don't even want to know what I witnessed him doing last week, it'd be enough to put anyone off men for years—"

"All I'm saying," Ginny cut in, talking over her, "is after you've booked Hanson for tossing off in a shopping mall, you should come join Harry, Neville and I at the Cauldron, and we'll sort out a likely candidate for you. We'll get you drunk enough that _someone _will look likely, anyway," she added, snickering. "Oh, come on! Don't look at me like that. It'll be boring being the only sober one again unless you're there and you let me get you plastered. That's really all that's keeping me going anymore, Hermione. Think about that."

"Thanks for your consideration and kind words of comfort, Ginny," Hermione sighed, waving for the check, "but I think I'll pass."

As Ginny shook her head and finally dropped the subject, Hermione couldn't help but feel a familiar sinking in her gut. She didn't know a thing, Ginny—pregnant and glowing and married to the man of her dreams with a perfect toddler and a perfect little home all set up in Godric's Hollow. As far as Hermione was concerned, her own romantic life was well and truly over. There wouldn't ever be that special someone for her, except _books_.

God, she'd been a real fool.

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Hermione arrived at work the next day to a file lying in the center of her anally clean desk. This was surprising: she was always one of the first people in the office, and David Belby, her supervisor, generally didn't arrive earlier than her unless something was up. She glanced at his door and saw the blinds of his office were drawn: a sure sign he was in, and working on something.

Excited for a moment, she hurried across the room and snatched up the heavy file—only to be immediately disappointed. This was the file she'd put together three weeks ago and had assumed was completed. On the front was a sticky that read, "This is to be your top priority now," in Belby's messy scrawl.

Sighing, she flipped it open, and was confronted by three black-and-white photographs clipped to the front page of the report: one each of Draco, Narcissa, and Lucius Malfoy.

Damn Belby. Why was he pulling up this garbage now? Hadn't he read the file? Hermione often suspected he just skimmed—this confirmed it. If he'd actually read it, he would've seen that she'd checked, rechecked, and thoroughly triple-checked the Malfoys and found nothing unsavory aside from their personalities. Every property even remotely associated with the Malfoy name had been strip-searched right down to the foundations; every dangerous or Dark artifact had been seized and destroyed.

The Malfoys themselves had all been deprived of wands for nearly a year, and then, after they'd proven themselves harmless during that time, Draco and Narcissa were allowed to purchase replacements. Meanwhile Lucius was forbidden to do magic for another two years after them. When he finally did get a replacement, the Ministry was sure to place powerful monitoring charms on it for several months, to be sure he wasn't reverting. Hermione had searched through his spell history nearly five times and hadn't found anything out of the ordinary.

She scowled at the little moving figures. All the hours she'd wasted compiling this report, and now Belby wanted her to revisit the issue, as if there were anything more to the story. Draco was slouched against the picture's border, looking nearly as exhausted as Hermione felt. Narcissa looked like winter: pale and cold, her hands clasped in her lap, her chin tilted up. Lucius merely stood there, straight-backed and staring.

Hermione had seen these photographs a million times when she'd first started this case. There was hardly anything remarkable about them. She hadn't seen the subjects in real life since the Final Battle, yet their faces were permanently etched into her memory. Even after all this time, she still couldn't make sense of Lucius Malfoy's expression. The other two Malfoys looked perfectly normal, but he… She'd thought to herself one morning, when she'd first been drawing up their reports, that he looked dead. Void in the eyes. Like a gutted fish on ice… She'd always thought there was something terrible about his stoic face. Something frightening… now it was just more apparent.

Still, dead or not, he certainly wasn't the worst thing to look at. She would never say it aloud, but objectively speaking he was… handsome. Especially when she remembered is mannerisms: the way he moved, how he spoke… None of it meant anything, though. He was still evil to the point of being nonhuman and _that _made him ugly, not his face. Right? Right.

With a huff, Hermione slammed the folder closed. She really couldn't bear the thought of looking through those old papers again. They were dull in the extreme: the Malfoys had done a disgustingly good job at keeping their noses clean following the war. How did Belby expect her to make this her top priority?

As if on cue, Belby himself came striding into the office, carrying a small cork board dotted with colored tacks and a patchwork quilt of newspaper clippings, sticky notes and yarn. He look disheveled; his wild black hair made Hermione think of Harry.

"A breakthrough," Belby said, propping the board on a chair opposite her desk. In all the years she'd known him, Hermione never knew Belby to waste time on introductions or small talk, not when something big was on his mind. Belby took out his wand and muttered a quick spell; a small, red dot of light, like a laser-pointer, appeared on the board. He used it to circle one of the press clippings. "Remember the Svobodas?"

Hermione had to fight to keep from rolling her eyes. "Yes, Belby. They were a family of thugs and they practically owned the Dark market for generations. They came out in the open during Voldemort's second reign and were taken down after the Final Battle. What's your point?"

"I've been trying to figure out how the Dark market is still functioning as well as it is, considering the Svoboda empire's been down for years," he said, a little breathless. Hermione guessed he hadn't got much sleep last night. "They were the major distributors of Dark objects and materials. They had hundreds of people working under them—but it wasn't very well-organized, and when they were disbanded, there was barely a hiccough in the market." He pointed again at the board, this time indicating a chart, linked by red yarn to a press clipping about the Svoboda trials.

Hermione glanced from her boss to the cork board. "That looks like the artwork of a patient in an insane asylum," she said. It was too early for this. "I know all about the Svobodas, and I know the Dark market's still going strong without them. What's your _point_, Belby? What has this got to do with the Malfoy case?"

He grinned and went on, pointing again with his laser at the board. "Yes, well, they weren't organized enough to have operated the whole Dark market, like we originally thought, were they?" he said. "So I thought, maybe they were just a _part_ of what was going on. Maybe they were just foot soldiers. And look—they should have been in their prime in 1996. You-Know-Who was back, and illegal trade should've been flourishing. But we don't see that." He pointed again at what looked like a table covered with numbers. "In fact, we see a distinct dropoff in the trade of Dark artifacts, especially illegal potions. It's like a wrench was thrown in the cogs. Business totally fell apart here. If the Svobodas were in charge of it all, why the sudden crash? What happened?"

Hermione paused, her eyebrows furrowed. "So you're saying someone else was behind the Dark market, and was using the Svobodas to distribute, but something happened to them in 1996." She glanced at her boss. "Well, what was it?"

Dear lord, Belby was really relishing this, wasn't he? The man positively danced as he pointed again at the board. "It just so happens that Lucius Malfoy went to prison that year." He used the beam from his wand to circle another press cutting. "And the market didn't perk up again until he broke out. Look: a month out of prison and the market's thriving again. But then it drops off again here"—he pointed—"and that's around the time the inhabitants of Malfoy Manor were confined to the house. Malfoy couldn't get out to do business, and suddenly the market goes wonky again. Coincidence?"

She followed the blue bit of yarn linking a column on the Svobodas to a cutting about Malfoy's incarceration. It was a long moment before she responded. "Correlation does not mean causation," she said matter-of-factly. "It's suspicious, to be sure, but it's not _proof_. We can't get him on any of this."

Belby wasn't fazed at all: in fact he seemed to have anticipated this sort of reaction from her. "That's true, but that's also why we need to focus on the Malfoy family again," he said seriously. "The Dark market is stronger than it ever was. I can't tell you how many erumpent horns we've dug up in the past month, and somehow we're still being flooded with illegal dragon eggs, and that new drug Doxie Dust that all the kids are on now—that's getting completely out of control, and we haven't got a clue about where it's coming from. None of the sellers we catch will give away their source. But there's definitely a _pattern_ to the flux of these Dark materials, Hermione. They're being moved and delivered as if by a well-oiled _business_, not like a load of hooligans are out swapping things randomly in dirty alleyways."

He took a deep breath. "And Malfoy's a business man. He's the head of the most successful business in wizarding Briton. And yes," he said loudly, as Hermione opened her mouth, "we've stripped his apothecaries, both physically and financially, and every last one of them turned up clean, but that's not to say he's incapable of running _another _business on the side. In fact he's the ideal culprit. He's a brilliant accountant; he's financed huge operations and charities"—Hermione winced a little—"so there's no denying he could cover something like this up in the numbers. If anyone could run an underground empire, and still _hide _it, it would be him."

There was a moment of silence, during which Hermione stared at the cork board and Belby stood there, panting a little. Eventually Hermione picked up the Malfoys' file and began rifling through it. "If you're correct on all this," she said, "then where are we supposed to start? I drew up this report, David—if Malfoy's hiding something, he's doing an insanely good job. I haven't found a trace of criminal activity anywhere near him."

Belby picked up his board and muttered another spell; the laser-like beam vanished from the end of his wand. "That's what I need you to figure out," he said.

Then he left the room.

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**A/N****: This is my first story; rating's for later on. I thought I could pull off a one-shot but then it kept going forfuckingever. Probably will end up being only a few chapters long, though. Pretty please leave a review! c:**


	2. Chapter 2

In her second year at Hogwarts, Hermione Jean Granger made a mistake.

It was an innocuous little thing. She'd mistook a cat hair for a human one, and it had led to one of the most humiliating experiences of her life. But unbeknownst to her friends at the time, it had changed her, and not just in that she'd ended up an abomination for a few weeks. No, the consequences had burrowed much deeper than that.

You see, when Hermione awoke in the Hospital Wing the morning following her disastrous slip-up, still furry-faced and tailed, she found that someone had left a book on her bedside table. _Aery Derry_, it had been called—and its pages contained a collection of numerous old wizarding fables, rather like Beetle's, but less… child-centric. She'd later discovered that Aery Derry was a household name among the older families, just not as openly slung around as, say, Babbity Rabbity (probably since nobody in Babbity got their cock stuck in a Snargaluff and had to fuck it twice in order to be set free again).

The stories in _Aery Derry _followed the misadventures of a young wizard by the same name, who had a tendency to use deceptive magic to achieve his ends, all with calamitous results. Whether the book had been planted by a discerning Madam Pomfrey or (she later suspected) Dumbledore himself (which was a bit creepy in its own right, but it got the job done), she never found out, but the message was clear on her first read-through. One story in particular had rattled young Hermione to her core, as it hit close to home and had let her know, on no uncertain terms, that _someone_ had guessed what she'd been trying to do that had gone so terribly wrong.

In it, young Aery Derry followed a dodgy prophecy to a village on the coast, where he was told he would finally find a wife. Upon arrival, however, he found that all of the eligible bachelorettes had been placed under a terrible curse and now languished in the sea, trapped under the waves; the only way he would be able to marry one was by foraging a magical pole from the rachises of an Abraxan, thread it with hair from a unicorn, and tie a golden ring to the end of the line. This kludge would somehow catch him a maid that would be equal to him in looks and standing, and bind him to her for as long as she wore the ring.

But Aery Derry was not a pretty man, and he did not want to be rejected on sight or risk catching an ugly woman; so he used a nefarious magic to make himself handsome, and tied a gold _hook_ to the end of his line, so his catch could not escape once she had bought his ruse. He cast; the line tightened; and for a day and a night he struggled to land his new wife, all the while fantasizing about her beauty, ecstatically anticipating her splendor… for several very explicit paragraphs. (Hermione had actually been grateful for the hair covering her face, she'd blushed continuously for days over those pages. Really, she ought to have skipped over it all, the good girl in her insisted she did, but it had been her first contact with anything remotely graphic, and if she were being honest with herself she had—well—rather enjoyed it. Not the writing, really, but the sensations it had evoked in her. To this day she blamed that dirty little book for triggering her interest in the opposite sex.)

When young Derry had stopped masturbating long enough to finally land his catch, he realized it was not a pretty maiden he had caught, but a large, slimy, smelly catfish—and it had swallowed his hook down into the irretrievable depths of its belly, permanently binding him to it.

From that infamous fable, the catfish had become among wizards a sort of symbol of the pitfalls of deceptive magic, as well as a rather popular verb, especially in reference to Polyjuice (which was commonly believed to have been the means by which Aery Derry had made himself handsome). To catfish someone was to deceive them, by low means, to achieve your ends; and to be a catfish was to be a bottom-feeder, a cheat. At some point the expression had leaked into muggle culture (the Statute of Secrecy wasn't watertight, after all) and retained some of its original meaning, though its application among them was rather different.

Hermione had realized on her final read-through (yes, she'd gone back and read it again, but it had been purely for academic purposes!) that she'd essentially made a catfish of herself. She'd well and truly besmirched her perfect record—not that she'd never broken rules! She'd just never made such huge mistakes while doing so. And in the case of Aery Derry, who was married to that catfish for sixty-seven years, some mistakes had lifelong consequences.

So Hermione had promised herself, in that hospital bed, that she would never again debase herself by resorting to such low trickery.

Unfortunately, some things are just cyclic.

* * *

In the twenty-fourth year of her life, Hermione Jean Granger made another mistake.

"I can't believe this!" she screamed over the rowdy pub music.

Ginny grinned. "Can't you? I _knew _you'd cave and show up eventually! You work too much, Hermione!"

A bottlecap whizzed over Hermione's head, narrowly missing the veritable black hole that was her bushy hair. Friday nights were live-band nights at the Leaky Cauldron; after Tom's retirement, Hannah Longbottom (nee Abbott) had taken it upon herself to liven the place up. Everything was washed out under orange and pink spotlights and the crowd here was much younger than usual. Some were "dancing" in front of the stage, if that's what you wanted to call it; others were draped around the bar or collapsed in booths, using crude sign language to try and communicate over the bassline.

Hermione, Ginny, Harry and Neville fell into this last category. Harry and Ginny were clutching hands, Ginny practically sitting in his lap, and Neville kept glancing at the bar, where his wife was serving drinks so fast her arms blurred. It was all so depressing and it made Hermione feel lonelier than usual, but after three drinks it seemed to matter a little less. After four, it didn't matter at all.

Now she wanted to vent about work and she didn't give a damn that Ginny hadn't been listening all night. To be fair, Hermione had first tried talking to Harry and Neville, but the both of them were so sloshed by the time she arrived that, even if they _could _hear her, she doubted if they could follow a simple conversation.

"It's so _stupid!"_ Hermione bellowed, taking a huge swallow of sauvignon blanc. Ginny watched the wine vanish with a wistful expression. "We barely even know if the pillock has anything to do with it but Belby's making me follow it up again, and I'm so _sick _of looking at their stupid faces, Ginny—"

"Just ask for reassignment," Ginny said, bored. "You don't have to take on every project he throws at you. Just let him know it's a waste of time and go do something else."

Hermione gave her a look of bleary outrage. "I couldn't do that! They'd all think I was a slacker, how am I supposed to advance if—?"

Ginny gave a rather caustic laugh. "That'll be the day—someone on god's green earth calling Hermione Granger a _slacker_."

Hermione felt a little stung, and she might've retorted, too, except that Ginny's face was suddenly alight with mischief. "Put the work down for a second," she said. "I think I've found the answer to your sleeping troubles!"

Hermione followed Ginny's gaze over her shoulder. Standing near the bar was a dark-haired man clutching a tumbler of some amber liquid; he was surrounded by a load of friends, all shouting over the music, their conversation punctuated by occasional laughter. He was handsome, definitely—he had nice blue eyes and straight, white teeth. He was dressed well, too. And after only a second of watching him, his eyes suddenly zeroed right in on Hermione's.

Hermione immediately felt sick. "Oh my God, _no!_" she yelled, spinning back around to face Ginny. "That guy would never—come on—are you _serious?"_

Ginny glared at her. "Come on, Hermione, you've got to try!" At that moment, however, she was distracted as Harry spilled a bit of beer on her skirt.

"I could ask Hannah to ask his name," Neville said. He peered at Hermione with uncharacteristic slyness, and he might've pulled off the whole conspiratorial look if he wasn't currently dumping his drink on the table.

Hermione went even redder. "No! No, Neville, don't you _dare_—"

But then he was gone, hurrying for the bar in a jagged line, and suddenly Hermione felt weepy. "It's not fair!" she yelled a Harry and Ginny across the table, her voice breaking. "Why can't you—why can't _anyone_ just—first at work, with Belby giving me this impossible assignment, it's so stupid, I don't even care, you know? And now Neville's going to humiliate me by making me flirt with this guy who's _obviously_ prettier than me—I mean, not prettier, more handsome, he's more handsome than I am—"

"Look, Hermione," Harry said, his glasses a little askew, "it's the Chamber of Secrets all over again, isn't it? Malfoy's got a secret and he's probably gloating about it back home—he probably talks about all his dirty business all the time with his son, probably training him up to take over even. Or maybe he talks to his wife or whatever. Why don't you just use Polyjuice Potion and sneak in? You'd probably only have to go once, remember, back in second year it only took us an hour to figure out—"

"—that Malfoy wasn't hiding _anything!"_ Hermione bellowed, finishing his sentence. She felt like crying loudly and holding Crookshanks, except last time she sobbed into his fur he'd passed gas on her. The memory made her even sadder. "All we figured out was Malfoy had kleptomania and there was a vault of Dark objects under _daddy dearest's_ drawing room!" Her eyes widened suddenly. Dark objects. Dark market, secret business… "Oh my _God_, Harry, you're brilliant!"

Harry grinned, tipping his glass sloppily at her. Ginny was glancing from Harry to Hermione, a frown on her face. "What's all this about Polyjuice and Malfoy?" she asked.

Hermione shook her head. "You explain!" she yelled at Harry.

* * *

Hermione left the bar a few hours after midnight. She stumbled a little on her way out; it took her a few minutes to put on her coat, and when she finally got her arms in the right holes, she'd pulled it on backwards. Muttering angrily, she finally gave up and threw it over her arm, stomping off to find a good apparition point.

"Hermione Granger?"

She turned. It was the dark-haired man Ginny had pointed out earlier. Suddenly she recalled Neville shambling off to figure out his name and never returning; Hermione assumed that Hannah had gotten off her shift and Neville had completely forgotten about it. They'd probably snuck off to do sleazy things in a storeroom.

Now here he was, standing alone with his hands in his pockets, smiling at her.

She stared at him like a deer in the headlights for so long that his smile faltered.

"You _are_ Hermione Granger, aren't you?" he asked, now sounding a little unsure of himself.

Hermione blinked. "Um," she said, "um, yes—yes, that's me. That's my name. Hermione Gramer—I mean, Granger. Granger." Oh _God_ please let it stop—but no, the words kept coming, faster now. "What do you want?" His eyes widened slightly and she tried to backpedal. "No, I don't mean that in a mean way, no, not like 'go away' or anything, I was just—I'm just surprised because I saw you earlier—I mean I wasn't _staring _obviously but it was—you know, you were there and now you're here and it's like, it's amazing, you know, how it's such a small world?"

Her voice trailed off into a squeak. He now looked distinctly uncomfortable, and it was nearly a relief when he glanced away and muttered, "Well—okay then. I saw you sitting with Harry Potter and I assumed it was you. It was good finally meeting you; you did a lot to bring down You-Know-Who. I just wanted to express my gratitude for that." He was casually backing away as he spoke, his eyes wandering, as if looking for someone else to perhaps come and save him. "I s'pose I'll see you around."

"Oh," Hermione said, and she wished to god in her inebriated state that she didn't sound so forlorn. "Oh, okay well, it was nice meeting you, mister—?"

But he was already gone.

She stared after him, and then turned on her heel and went hurrying off down the street, already in tears.

* * *

As soon as she woke up the next morning—sticky and hungover on her couch—Hermione didn't allow herself to linger on the mortifying events of the night prior. She drowned out all of her shame by getting to work on Harry's suggestion.

Polyjuice Potion. It would be simple. She could whip up a big batch in her own kitchen and nobody would know. Of course, she couldn't use anything she heard while impersonating Draco or Narcissa in court, since the use of Polyjuice to get a confession off Lucius Malfoy would be entrapment—like forcing Veritaserum on him, or using the Imperius Curse. But whatever she heard would give her a place to _start_. All she needed was for him to slip the name of an associate, or an address to a warehouse, _anything _she could later track down and pin on him. God knew she wanted to see a terrible bigot like Malfoy permanently behind bars, but more than that, bringing down the Dark market could advance her career past all this tedious criminal-watching. She might finally be able to address those laws that desperately needed changing. All she had to do was get some hair or something off Draco or Narcissa, sneak into Malfoy Manor, and spend a little quality time with Mr. Dead-Eyes.

The thrill of taking action, of actually _doing _something, propelled her through the next few weeks of feverish brewing. Belby wasn't pleased with her seeming lack of progress on the Malfoy case, but since she was dutifully churning out reports, showing that she was at least _trying_, he kept his mouth shut. He didn't even interrogate her when she requested an extension on her loan of the department's shitty Invisibility Cloak; it was standard procedure to go out spying every once in awhile, after all. At least this way nobody would be suspicious of her—meddling in the Malfoys' business was her job, after all.

Every so often, when passing a mirror or a darkened window, she'd catch a glimpse of herself, looking more unkempt than usual these days, and she could've _swore _she saw whiskers on her face: sometimes the black cat's whiskers she'd borne in second year, sometimes longer, droopier, fleshier—like a certain aquatic bottom-feeder she refused to name.

And as ever, when wrapped up in her own righteousness, she ignored her conscious.

She decided early on to impersonate Narcissa. This was not only because she was a woman and it would automatically be easier, but because the thought of being Draco for a day made her skin crawl with a million tiny spiders. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Narcissa was a ridiculously gorgeous woman, and Hermione was _not at all_ curious to see what life was like when you looked that good all the time. No, that didn't factor into her plans at all. Not in the slightest…

Hermione kept the ratty DMLE cloak on her at all times, venturing away from the Ministry whenever she could to explore the most common wizarding hotspots in the country, her eyes peeled for any familiar blonde heads in the crowd. But the Malfoys had become shy creatures after Voldemort's fall, and it wasn't until five weeks following Harry's suggestion that Hermione actually spotted one of them.

Hermione had given up her search for the day and had been buying ice-cream at a stall in Diagon Park—a beautiful patch of land the Ministry had developed off Diagon Alley following the War, to honor those that died fighting Voldemort—when she noticed a pair of expensive boots clicking along the sidewalk ahead of her. The woman wearing them had on a rich purple dress and matching hat, gloves, scarf and large, dark sunglasses. Her hair was completely covered and most of her face was shielded by the glasses, but Hermione had seen her so often in the Ministry file that she recognized her instantly.

Quickly, Hermione ducked behind the ice cream stall and, much to the vendor's confusion, covered herself in the horrendous DMLE cloak, muttering as she did, "Ministry business, there's nothing to see here." The cloak had a few holes in it, so she had to be careful; as she slipped out from behind the stall the vendor stared blankly at the place where she'd vanished, then just shrugged and went on counting the change in his till.

Narcissa Malfoy wasn't in a hurry, it seemed. Hermione followed her at a safe distance as she meandered through the park; she wasn't rushing, but she didn't seem to really be enjoying herself, either. Occasionally she'd glance around, as if worried someone would recognize her. Eventually she stopped in the very center of the park: a large statue of Hogwarts following the Final Battle, cast in dark iron; destroyed and desolate, a memory of what the War had cost.

Narcissa stared at it for a long moment, her hands clasped in front of her (just like in her picture, Hermione noted), then quietly she withdrew a small, white flower from her purse and laid it among the bouquets and candles at the foot of the statue. She drew out a light-colored wand and flicked it; one of the abandoned candles sprang to life. She went on staring at it for a moment; Hermione, standing behind her, couldn't see her expression. Then she sniffed and seated herself on a bench nearby, pulling a dog-eared book out of her purse and beginning to read. Hermione was alarmed to see Jane Austen's name stamped in fading letters across the spine.

Narcissa looked so… elegant. So refined and delicate, like some sort of _royal_. Her legs were crossed at the ankle, her back straight, turning the frail pages of her book with gentle little flicks of her gloved hands. Hermione felt a twinge of envy, watching her from several meters away. Seriously, how could there not be a single wrinkle in her dress? How did she get her scarf to fold _just so_—or her hat to sit just right? How did anyone go around looking so… _perfect _like that?

It occurred to Hermione, then, that she was supposed to impersonate this woman, and yet she knew absolutely nothing about her—not her habits, not her diction, not even the sorts of things she was interested in (as evidenced by her shock at Narcissa's choice of novel). For a wild moment Hermione panicked a little and almost dropped the whole thing. How in the _hell_ was she supposed to emulate this weird flawless poster-child for femininity well enough to fool Lucius Malfoy, a man who'd been her husband for nearly three decades?

She got a hold of herself. She didn't have to _become _Narcissa, she could just be her with a bad headache or something. She could say she was having an off day, or perhaps even fake food poisoning, and Lucius would shrug off whatever small incongruences he would've otherwise noticed, right? Actually, that was a brilliant plan. Yes, she'd just do that, and everything would go smoothly.

But it couldn't hurt to do a little more field work, surely? Hermione thought hard. Would it matter if Narcissa Malfoy saw her today? Probably not. It was extremely unlikely that Narcissa knew what Hermione was working on at the Ministry; Hermione hadn't been the one to interview Narcissa or her family when it came time to give their testimonies. Hermione hadn't attended the Malfoy's trials, either. So what did it matter?

Steeling herself, Hermione slipped around to the other side of the memorial, made sure nobody was looking, then pulled off the Invisibility Cloak and stuffed it in her pocket. She paused—trying to straighten her clothes and her hair, suddenly self-conscious—then went ambling back around the memorial, pretending to admire it.

At first Narcissa didn't notice her, but when Hermione plonked down on the bench right beside her, it was hard not to.

Narcissa glanced up quickly from her book; Hermione saw her impossibly blue eyes widen, alarmed, behind the glasses. In a sudden tidal wave of nerves, Hermione found herself vomiting up the words: "Good morning, Mrs. Malfoy! It's a really lovely day, isn't it?" in a voice that was far louder than necessary.

Good lord, why did she have to turn into such a social retard whenever she got nervous? Narcissa stared at her incredulously for several long moments; then her mouth thinned, and she leaned away from Hermione, glancing frostily across the park. "Good _afternoon_, Miss Granger."

Oh, it was afternoon now, wasn't it? Hermione glanced up at the sun—a motion not lost on Narcissa, whose frown deepened as she returned to her book, pulling the brim of her hat down to shield her face.

Hermione found herself reddening. Oh god, what was she supposed to do now? Then she remembered the author of Narcissa's book, and more verbal diarrhea came streaming out of her before she could stop herself: "I see you're reading Jane Austen—she's one of my favorites. Which book is that?"

Narcissa did not look up. She was glaring behind her glasses and her eyes were no longer moving; Hermione wondered if Narcissa was just sitting there waiting for her to leave before she went on reading. Eventually the silence became unbearable, and Narcissa relented: "This particular book is a compilation of a few of her works." Another long silence, then: "Is there anything in particular I may help you with, Miss Granger?"

Hermione swallowed back another torrent, and forced herself to smile. "No, nothing comes to mind. I just came here to see the memorial again. I haven't seen it since its dedication," she said, trying her hardest to sound friendly and conversational. Instead she sounded like a B-rated actress overdoing her lines at her first audition. Frantically—because Narcissa was now looking colder than ever—Hermione pretended to notice the candle flickering at the base of the memorial, and spewed out, "Oh, did you light that?"

The book closed with a smart snap, and Narcissa was on her feet, tucking it away in her handbag and straightening her hat. "I must be going," she said icily. "Goodbye, Miss Granger."

"I—what?" Hermione spluttered, but in a moment Narcissa had turned on the spot and vanished.

Well, that was terrible. Hermione felt queasy as she looked around, making sure nobody had actually witnessed that debacle of a conversation. At least she'd got close enough to see the brand of Narcissa's dress and the general look of her accessories, including her wand; Hermione was free to buy similar items now when the time came to take the Polyjuice.

And oh, wait a minute—what was this? She leaned over and carefully extracted the single golden hair caught on a splinter on the bench. She held it up to eye-level and examined it closely. Yes, definitely human hair, and if she remembered correctly, Narcissa did have blonde hair around this length.

Well, all right then. Perhaps this hadn't been a total waste after all.

* * *

**A/N****: Oh lawd is that a plot I smell Jesus?!  
Reviews persuade Lucius to appear in the next chapter! :D**


	3. Chapter 3

The Polyjuice had been done for a week. A huge cauldron of it was _gloop_ing away in the sink when Hermione came home that night. She ran in, picked up the graying Crookshanks off the ottoman and twirled him around in the center of the sitting room.

"Well, it's all downhill from here, Crooks," she sang, and he purred in response. (Or she hoped to _god _it was a purr, anyway: poor Crooks had developed a few colon issues in his old age and sometimes what sounded like purring was really something far more sinister.) She quickly put him down.

A single hair would only be enough to complete a cupful of the potion. That would buy her about an hour of time in Narcissa's shoes. Hermione planned on sneaking into Malfoy Manor and finding more of Narcissa's hair lying around, to ensure she'd have plenty more to continue impersonating her in the future, if need be. She pulled out a tiny phial from her jacket pocket and set it down on her cooktop; inside, she'd jammed the fragile strand. It would be her golden ticket back into the house of her nightmares.

That made her stop. She'd avoided thinking about what Malfoy Manor represented to her: a stronghold of bigotry, the stage where her worst experiences had played out. She pushed the thoughts away; she wasn't going to be in there long. She'd be okay. It was only for an hour, after all. Hopefully Lucius Malfoy was a real loudmouth and that'd be all the time she needed…

Hermione spent the next few weeks planning her excursion into the Malfoys' lives. It was viciously complicated, and it triggered all sorts of unpleasant memories of breaking into the Ministry and Gringotts. This time around, though, she didn't have Ron or Harry to help her. Harry was up to his neck in the Auror life, and he was a family man now—he had responsibilities. She received a few encouraging letters from him, and whenever they met up he was entirely supportive, though he seemed to grow tired of talking about it after awhile. He wasn't invested in any of it, after all.

And the last time she'd seen Ron was last Christmas at the Burrow. They'd gotten along decently but she wasn't about to ring him up now, even though the loneliness weighed on her like an anvil. It was better to be alone, she reasoned, than to lead someone on, and undoubtedly Ron would take her asking for help as an invitation back into her pants. It wouldn't do.

All of this was complicated by how severely limited her information was. There was no library book she could rifle through about the Malfoys' daily lives; she had to figure all that out herself, and they were the least helpful subjects she could imagine. The Malfoys were rarely seen outside of their own properties, all of which were surrounded by high walls or hedges; she couldn't swoop around on a broom without being noticed, either, and if she was caught… well, she didn't want to think about it.

After a few days stalking around under her Invisibility Cloak in one of the larger apothecaries, she had the good fortune of spotting Draco. He came in and left by Floo, took his lunch in his office and seemed to avoid walking past open windows, as if frightened that someone might attack him if they spotted him walking by. God, no wonder she hadn't been able to find the bugger before now. He was paranoid.

With a bit of luck, and loads more tedious waiting and tailing, Hermione was able to figure out his general work routine. All of this was turning out to be duller than she thought possible, but she kept on with it, because it led to more sightings of Narcissa. It was imperative that Hermione learn as much as she could about the woman before approaching Lucius, and the easiest way of spying on her was by sticking to Draco.

In all that time Hermione didn't so much as glimpse Lucius. She pictured him sulking around inside his manor, Scrooge-like, perhaps taking a swim in a vault full of gold—or maybe, if Belby was to be believed, he was up to more dastardly things. Just because Hermione never saw him didn't necessarily mean he wasn't leaving his home: he had access to portkeys and the Floo network, after all, and he could apparate. She couldn't check his Floo or portkey records without a warrant, and it wasn't as if he had the Trace on him.

Where he went—if he was going anywhere—was anyone's guess.

From what she observed, Hermione deduced that Draco was the one running the apothecaries now. It looked like painfully dull work, and it was clear his heart wasn't in it: he was better at wasting copious amounts of time than any of Hermione's coworkers, and that was saying something. In fact he spent the entirety of one day building a large pyramid out of plastic forks in the mailing room, for Christ's sake. But his employees seemed to like him well enough; she didn't catch them muttering about him very often, anyway, and after all, the business wasn't failing so he must've been doing _something _right.

Even if it was just money laundering.

Narcissa continued to look flawless every time Hermione saw her, and that was seriously freaking her out. She tried to take note of the brands Narcissa favored; it seemed everything the woman put on was well out of Hermione's (or any other mortal human's) price range. And that wasn't even the biggest of her issues: how was she supposed to ensure Narcissa was out of the way long enough to interrogate Lucius? Thus far Hermione hadn't managed to listen in on any of Narcissa and Draco's conversations. Honestly, they had to be the most secretive assholes she'd ever seen in her life. She supposed she'd just have to be ready to seize an opportunity whenever it presented itself, and rely on luck to get her through.

And she was not at all ready when opportunity did eventually come knocking.

"Hermione!"

Hermione looked up, squinting like a mole in the sunlight. "Oh, hullo Harry," she said, dropping the Malfoys' file back onto her desk and smiling up at him. She tried to pretend she hadn't been staring at their pictures again, as if hoping one of them might pipe up with the answers to all of her problems. She'd stuck a yellow happy-face sticker over Lucius' head so she didn't have to see him—and no, it _wasn't_ because she secretly, in her blackest heart of hearts, thought he was even remotely attractive (at all), and she could barely even look at him for a moment before something started twisting violently around in her stomach.

No, never, _preposterous_.

"How are you? Do you want some coffee?" Her hands were trembling slightly from the three cups she'd already consumed that morning, but since it'd been nearly thirty minutes since the last mug she supposed she could do with another.

"No, thank you," Harry said, dropping into one of her cushy office chairs. It wasn't very often he came to visit her at work; something must be up. He look disheveled, as usual, but also distinctly pleased, and for a crazy moment Hermione thought Ginny might've had the baby, and oh God why didn't they _tell _her—but then—"So guess who I saw in the Floo department today?"

Hermione blinked. "Who?"

"Narcissa Malfoy. She was there alone, she had a suitcase, and she was setting up a long-distance Floo to Arles. She just left—and you know those kinds of Floos take a long time. So you can pretty much guarantee she won't be back for a few hours at the least."

They stared at each other a long moment. Hermione experienced a great swoop of terror—oh god was this it? Was it time?

"Are you sure she went to Arles?" she asked. Her voice came out higher than usual; she cleared her throat and tried not to look like she was about to throw up. "Are you sure it wasn't Arlesey or something…?"

Harry nodded. "Definitely Arles. So if I were you, I'd hurry—you might not get another chance for who knows how long."

* * *

It all seemed to be a blur after that. In the amount of time it took to sneeze, Hermione had left the Ministry and was back in her flat, knocking things over in her rush to get everything ready. She ripped into a change of clothes; upended the phial containing Narcissa's hair over a cup of Polyjuice (which immediately hissed and turned into a light, transparent pink); funneled as much unfinished Polyjuice as she could into a milk jug; stuffed it all into a suitcase that she hoped to Merlin looked remotely like Narcissa's; and then, finally, she dumped a mountain of cat food into Crookshanks' bowl, because the poor thing looked so morose.

"It's all right, Crooks," Hermione told him, feverishly rubbing a special sort of temporary varnish on her wand. It lightened the color of the wood, so that hers could pass as a copy of Narcissa's—which, if she remembered correctly, was quite pale. Nifty little concoction, and Hermione had purchased it in one of the Malfoys' apothecaries, too.

She paused. Oh, shoot. She should probably be boycotting the Malfoys' establishments if there was a chance they were involved with the Dark market. She glanced down at her wand again. Oh well. Just once wouldn't hurt.

This was it. It felt as if she were about to take a practical exam back at school, only she hadn't studied very well for this one. She gathered her too-long dress and her suitcase in one hand, held her bleached wand aloft in the other, and apparated to the wild Wiltshire countryside.

* * *

Hermione hadn't anticipated so much goddamn _hiking_. Thank Merlin for her exercise regime.

She knew roughly where Malfoy Manor was, but her apparition must've been off, because it took the better part of an hour to spot the property and nearly as long to locate the front gate. Narcissa Malfoy did not wear practical shoes, and Hermione was nearly crippled by the time she arrived.

Massaging her feet, Hermione took a moment to marvel at just how wealthy these little shits were. The size of the front yard alone was _ludicrous_. Beyond the perfectly manicured hedges, she could hear a fountain and perhaps a stream; a funny bird call that might've been peacocks; and—while she was looking around for a safe place to take the Polyjuice—she thought she could hear a dog bark, too.

She found a secluded bit of brush, ducked down, and drew out the bottle containing the light pink Polyjuice. There was nothing else for it: now or never. With a last deep breath, and a whispered prayer that the hair had indeed belonged to Narcissa and not a cat or perhaps a golden retriever or any other animal that would turn her face furry, she dumped the whole bottle down her throat.

Christ, it tasted like _champagne_.

She'd experienced the effects of Polyjuice too often before, but that didn't make them any more pleasant. After several minutes of gagging and choking and feeling as if she were melting from the inside out, Hermione became aware of two things: firstly, her clothes now fit properly; and secondly, Narcissa Malfoy had muscle memory when it came to balancing on her ridiculous heels. Really, Hermione could barely feel them on her feet now, which coincidentally no longer hurt.

She stood up, much taller than normal, and—waving her wand—transfigured a nearby leaf into a looking-glass. She had thought this would be exactly like impersonating Bellatrix, but as Hermione stared into the mirror she realized that, unlike her sister, Narcissa did not have resting-bitch-face, and it was something she had to simulate. Hermione could see herself very clearly in the lovely visage staring back at her: the wide-eyed expression it wore was a dead giveaway (though she thought, perhaps a little vainly, that Narcissa looked quite a bit prettier when Hermione had control of her face).

Desperately she tried to emulate the chilly look she'd seen so often on the woman, and by the time she was satisfied nearly ten minutes had passed—ten of her precious sixty minutes, lord.

She ran up to the front gate, hesitated—what if there were wards to detect concealment, like in Gringotts?—then stuck out her arm to touch it. Her hand passed through the iron coils as if they were smoke. No terrifying face appeared in the metalwork, either, and she remembered it doing that last time she was here. Perhaps some of the security measures had been dropped in the five years since the War…?

Steeling herself again, she marched through the gate, and tried not to glance nervously over her shoulder in case somebody was watching her. The spikes of her heels dug into the gravel as she moved up the drive, though surprisingly she hardly stumbled. More of that muscle memory.

As she neared the manor she could see the façade of it more clearly: it really was a gorgeous house, though she admitted so only grudgingly. She wished it were black stone and maroon slats, covered in gargoyles and creeping ivy—but it was a light thing, elegant and airy. Damn them.

As she entered the turnabout the hedges fell away and she had a full view of the front yard. It looked like something out of a gardening catalog: bright and rich. Merlin, she wanted to roll in that grass. A fountain giggled off to her left, and all around it—some in the fruit trees, some in the hedges, others strutting across the lawn—she counted nearly two dozen peafowl, some eye-wateringly colorful, others pale as ghosts.

It was one such white bird, a male, that approached her. Its neck bobbed comically as it walked, zig-zagging slowly one way, then the other, turning its head to and fro but always keeping its beady black eye on her. She stopped to watch it, mesmerized by its movements, and it stopped, too, nearly the same moment.

They stared at each other a second, then the bird flared out its tail and flashed a million golden eyes at her. Oh, Jesus, she thought it was pure white, but either Malfoy had bred gold into its feathers, or magicked them that way. It shook itself, rustling its wings, demanding her attention—as if she could look anywhere else. Suddenly she wanted to laugh. Oh, this was perfect, wasn't it? If there was a Hogwarts House for just Malfoy, _this _ridiculous creature would be the mascot.

What an arrogant _prick_.

But her humor died away when the bird put down its tail and made a noise. It sounded like a car horn, and happened so fast she jumped a little, startled. The bird shook its tail and made the noise again, and then again, loud enough she could feel it in her stomach.

And then it lowered its head and charged.

Before this point in her life, Hermione never considered peacocks to be particularly scary animals. She'd seen them in zoos and once in a transfiguration lesson, but she'd never felt threatened by them. Now, as this huge white monster came barreling at her, beak open, legs flailing absurdly like a chicken's, she thought she'd never seen anything more terrifying in her life. A scream ripped out of her involuntarily and she was running in her impractical heels, up, up the drive away from the demented feathery foghorn, gravel flying in her wake.

How did it come to this? Would she die here? What would her mother say when she found out her little girl was mauled to death by a living lawn ornament? It was closing in—she could hear it blasting its awful call at her, soon it would be upon her, and from somewhere deep inside her Hermione mustered up all of her Gryffindor courage and spun around, wand drawn, bellowing _"Immobulus!"_

The bird froze mid-stride, hovering above the ground. Those evil eyes stared at her with a mad sort of hatred, and there was no doubt in her mind that this bird may have devoured her soul had it managed to catch her. It was clearly possessed of the devil and the first thing Hermione was going to do when she got back to the Ministry was report it to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

That was so close. Too close. She thought maybe she should leave, now, before anything worse happened, but as she looked back at the gate she felt her resolve stiffen. No, she'd come too far already, and she wouldn't get another chance like this. She was not going to be stymied by a _peacock_.

She turned back to the manor, took a few more steps—she was now at the foot of the porch—and locked eyes with the dog.

For a breath, they simply looked at one another. Hermione felt as if she were eleven years old again, gawping up at Fluffy in the third-floor corridor of Hogwarts. Aside from that monster, and perhaps all the times she'd seen Sirius when transformed, this was the biggest dog she'd ever laid eyes on; "wolf" might've been a more appropriate term, since it looked uncannily like one. The black markings on its face that gave it a distinctly murderous expression, and as she watched, the lips pulled back off the fangs, and it began to growl—very quietly at first, but with mounting volume.

She'd been prepped a little by the run-in with the peacock, so this time she recovered from her shock quickly and, before the beast could even think about attacking, she'd waved her wand at it and yelled "Immobulus!" again. The dog froze, ears back, and the ice-blue eyes widened threateningly at her as she mounted the steps onto the porch. "Good mutt," she said, scratching it behind the ears. Its growling increased to a low roar.

Did Narcissa have a key? Surely she didn't knock when entering her own home, she must just let herself in, but funnily enough Hermione didn't carry around a spare key to Malfoy Manor. She tried the door; locked. Damn. She could just say she'd lost her key, or forgotten it somewhere, and with that in mind she didn't even hesitate when she reached for the knocker and pounded it firmly, three times.

She felt calmer now, somehow. More relaxed. Her confidence had been bolstered by her recent triumphs over the local fauna. Behind her she could hear the dog growling and the peacock wailing, so she cast a quick silencing charm over her shoulder, in case their behavior drew Malfoy's suspicions.

But it wasn't Malfoy who answered the door. In fact, she thought for a second the door had jumped open on its own, but then a voice said from around her knees, "Oh, Mrs. Malfoy—what a pleasure to see you again—please, do come in!"

Hermione looked down. In the threshold stood a house-elf, smiling in earnest at up at her. He looked a little surprised to see her there, actually—but Hermione didn't allow herself to panic: Narcissa was supposed to have left for France that day, after all.

She tried not to stare too much at him as he led her inside and closed the door; in all her time working for elf rights, defending them in court and interviewing them and recording their testimonials, she'd never once seen one wear _glasses_. But there his were: square rims perched on his little button nose. He wasn't a free elf, though. He wasn't wearing normal clothes, only a pillowcase, although it wasn't a pillowcase like Dobby's had been. It was a black silk thing stitched with gold thread, and embroidered elaborately in the corner was the Malfoy family crest. He looked clean and cheerful, and Hermione was reminded of Kreacher when she, Harry and Ron had lived with him in Grimmauld Place during the War.

It made her wonder.

"You come at a most opportune time, mistress; the solarium is all in bloom," he said in a weirdly normal, near-human voice; he took her jacket off her shoulders and tossed it into the coatroom where it hung itself neatly on a cushioned hanger. He had a high-class accent and as she watched he smoothed down the front of his pillowcase, as if nervous about looking presentable. "Goodness, shall I prepare tea? Perhaps bring out your favorite coffee cakes? I know how you"—then he stopped, and Hermione glanced down at him in panic—had he seen something, did he suspect? He was watching her closely, a small frown on his little face, but before she could fashion an escape plan he said quietly, "Or have you merely forgotten something, Mrs. Malfoy? Shall I fetch it for you?"

Hermione stared at him in confusion. "No," she finally said, trying to fix her face back into Narcissa's haughty scowl, "no, erm—I've just come back to speak with Lucius."

The grave way the elf was looking at her made her nerves spike, but then he nodded solemnly and said, "The master is just in his study."

"Ah—thank you," Hermione said, then winced, wondering if Narcissa normally thanked her servants, but the elf only smiled and bowed. She didn't want him to notice her looking around in confusion for the study in question, so she quickly added: "And um, yes, if you would bring up tea, and the cake, that would be perfect, thank you."

As he bowed and disapparated, she realized with a jolt that he'd been using the pronoun "I," something that she'd never heard an elf do before. She made a mental note to find out more about that elf if she could.

But onto more pressing matters. She had _no idea_ where she was, no idea where to find Malfoy, and only a limited amount of time to harass him and get out before she turned back into Hermione, and she didn't want to think of what might happen to her if she was caught. The portraits were all staring at her and she felt suddenly vulnerable, like a little girl lost in a museum.

"Bugger," she muttered under her breath, lifting her skirts and bustling down the hall and into the drawing room. She didn't look around—she didn't want to remember, not now when it was so imperative that she keep her focus—but the first door she took led to a dead end in the form of a sitting room, and the next appeared to be an informal dining area. The third was better; she found herself in a hallway. Door after door, hall after hall, she burrowed deeper into the bowls of the house until she was sure the house-elf was suspicious of her continued absence, or worse, Malfoy was now aware she was around, and might find her bumbling along at any moment.

She needed more time, and for that, she needed more of Narcissa. She stopped looking for Malfoy's study and started trying to find the master bedroom—she'd come across a few bedrooms already, but the dusty white sheets drawn over all the furniture let her know that these were likely guest rooms, and hadn't been used in years. Her search became more frantic as the time began trickling away, but at last, after clambering up yet another staircase nearly at a run and bursting into the first door she found, she discovered a room that couldn't be anything other than Narcissa and Lucius' bedroom.

_Find a vanity_, she thought, and immediately spotted one against the far wall. She sprinted across the room and began yanking open drawers. They were all, to her great surprise, empty, except for the bottommost one on the right. In it, she found—_bingo_—a small hairbrush, thank you God. She held the fine bristles up to her face and spotted a few hairs tangled in them: golden hairs. As quickly as she could, what with her hands trembling, she extracted a few, making sure to examine each one closely for that golden color. It wouldn't help at all if she accidentally Polyjuice'd herself into Lucius: she didn't think he'd take kindly to finding his clone wandering around the house in a dress.

She dropped the hairs into the jug of Polyjuice she'd brought, and to her enormous relief, the potion changed again to that soft clear pink.

She'd just stuffed the hairbrush away in her suitcase and taken a few sizable swallows of the completed Polyjuice when a noise behind her made her spin on the spot, clutching her heart.

"Narcissa?"

And oh god, there he was. Right there, filling up the doorway, looking just as sleekly pristine as the real Narcissa always did.

Lucius Malfoy.

* * *

**A/N****: Yeah alright so, he ****_did _****show up, it counts c: Thank you ****_so much_**** for your reviews! I really wanted to continue on but this chapter's already way long. Now that I have Lu to play with you can expect things to heat up...**


	4. Chapter 4

In person, no part of Lucius Malfoy looked dead.

Just the opposite, actually. The room seemed much smaller now, crowded by his presence. He was in full sweeping wizard's robes and looked at the height of his arrogant magnificence: the black of the cloth made his skin marble, so much like a mannequin, and his frozen expression completed the image. A plait of woven, white-blonde hair hung over his shoulder and down over the lapel of his coat, tied in black.

Hermione felt all the breath _whoosh _out of her lungs and, entirely unbidden, her eyes fixed on his face.

Merlin, that must be what Lucifer looks like. She'd always felt a foreboding whenever she'd been forced into his company, but suddenly all her previous encounters with him felt insignificant. He'd hardly noticed her before. Now she bore the full brunt of his crippling attentions.

Those cold eyes were so sharp and so entirely focused on her that she almost felt naked, violated. In the second it took her to absorb the situation she recognized what a terrible mistake she'd made, coming here dressed as Narcissa as if she could _really_ pull it off. If she thought his little black-and-white photograph was too much to look at, how was she supposed to look at the real him—

—especially now that he was far, far too close.

She didn't know how it happened but he was suddenly across the room. He didn't touch her but he was within arm's reach, and he was staring at her so hard that she had no choice but to look down, away, _anywhere_ else, because if she met his eyes then surely he'd know.

That terrible twisting was back in her stomach; she told herself it was fear, and she wasn't entirely wrong.

"Narcissa," he said again, and she could hear the touch of incredulousness in his tone now. His low, purring voice, so very nearby, made every hair on Narcissa Malfoy's body stand up.

Hermione knew instinctually that if she didn't get out of there, _now_, everything—the whole universe—would all go to hell. But when she tried to move she found her legs wouldn't obey her: they appeared to be made of gelatin.

More muscle memory? Yes, let's believe that.

Oh god, oh god, they were just standing there now in total silence. He was looking at her, boring into her, and she still was avoiding his eye. She felt, rather than saw, him glance at her suitcase; she heard a quiet hitch in his breathing.

Oh Jesus, did he _know _it wasn't the same suitcase? Did he know she was wearing a different outfit than this morning?

Finally, _finally_, panic made her speak. "I—" Her voice cracked; she was staring at his polished shoes; she could almost see her (or rather, Narcissa's) terrified face in them. She cleared her throat, and willed herself to look up at him, forcing herself to look at least a quarter as authoritative as Narcissa normally was. He was _so close—_her temperature spiraled up alarmingly; was she sick?—oh god, she could practically feel his breath on her. Her pulse raced. "I've come back."

The reaction she got to those words was anything but what she expected. He took a step back—thank the lord, now she had some space to breathe—and drew himself up, rolling back his shoulders, looking down his nose at her. Was he… glaring? A billion thoughts raced through her head: surely he knew, surely he was going to murder her and hide her in the walls now. But the words that came out of his mouth were the last words on earth she expected to hear.

"So it seems. Why now, after all this time?"

What the fuck. "It hasn't been that long, really," she said quickly. Harry had seen Narcissa in the Floo department just that morning, hadn't he? She went on in the same breath: "I changed my plans and now I'm home. I've—I've got to leave again soon, but I wanted to see you."

Lucius continued to glare at her for another moment, but she detected a change. Something about his demeanor was suddenly different. He glanced again at her suitcase, then deep into her eyes, and she thought maybe he would leave, or perhaps continue to question her—but neither of those things happened.

Instead there occurred the worst possible tragedy in the history of forever. He closed the distance between them, grabbed her, and pulled their bodies flush.

It took all of about three seconds for Hermione to lose her shit. He was upon her so fast, and with such dizzying intensity, that her mind—once her pride and joy—stalled like a rusty engine. One stride of his long legs and he completely consumed her field of vision; he pinned her tight against his chest, she could hear his thrumming heartbeat, his arms were like iron bars around her, the whole of him right up against her, and Jesus were they really _embracing_, how the fuck did this happen? And no _Merlin _now he was nuzzling into her hair, breathing deep, she could feel the heat of it in her scalp, and he was _savoring _her and god was that him pressing his lips to her forehead, was that low rumble _really _coming from his chest or was that thunder?

And that other noise—surely that gasp didn't come from _her? _It was reactive—it was all muscle memory, her body moving into his warmth, her hands clutching at the front of his robes, no, none of _that _was sensible down-to-earth Hermione. She could smell the elusive aroma of him, feel the tickle of his corn-silk hair on her face, and all her blood was reorganizing itself in the most unhelpful configuration and she thought perhaps she might faint, or scream, or both—and die.

Later on, Hermione justified her next action by asserting that she'd only been responding to a threatening situation. It was what anyone would've done. He was clearly deranged and she had to defend herself from his violent—hugging. She had not, after all, anticipated a situation of this intensity during all her careful planning to impersonate his _wife_.

Her repelling charm smacked him right in the middle of his chest, and he was shoved back against the nearest wall with a gut-wrenching _thud_, and the look of total shock on his face was enough to root her to the spot. She nearly dropped her wand.

Oh _Merlin_.

They were staring at each other again, but now everything was different. It was like they were both victims of a sudden bomb-blast, and the chaos had trauma rendered them too dazed to think. But it didn't last, and he recovered first, his shock morphing first into a look of such heart-wrenching hurt and confusion that she immediately wanted to inhale her repellant charm back into her lungs—but then it was gone, wicked away, and now he looked _furious_.

Like perhaps he might kill her.

"No—I mean—I—I just want to talk!" she screamed at him, louder than she actually meant; she felt terrified, confused, she was _aroused_ for Christ's sake, her legs trembling, panting as if she'd run a marathon. He seemed to take all of this in, and his anger seemed to lessen. She noticed a brush-stroke of color in his high cheekbones, and she didn't think it had anything to do with being tossed unceremoniously against his own bedroom wall.

She needed to _leave_.

"Oh," he breathed, and her skin prickled again with goosebumps and the caressing sound of his voice; his hands moved distractedly, straightening his clothes, smoothing over the fine blonde hairs that had come loose and fallen across his face. He squared his shoulders and went one shade pinker in the cheeks, as if embarrassed by his loss of composure. "Well, then." He cleared his throat. "I apologize. I only"—he struggled with himself, clearly grasping for words, but after a moment he gave up and said, "Shall we go to the solarium? Francis has arranged tea. He tipped me off about your arrival—him and Fairway. I heard the ruckus in the yard."

"I—you know I really should be going," Hermione said, her voice warbling everywhere. She tried to keep her eyes on him as she grabbed around for her suitcase, and she gasped and nearly tripped backwards when he darted forward, a hand outstretched.

"Wait!" He stared at her, his lips parted, and quickly retracted his hand; a look of desperation flitted across his face and then it was smoothed away, and suddenly he was cool and polished. "Can we not at least have tea? You've come to talk; we should talk. I apologized for misinterpreting this"—he waved a hand—"your arrival. But we are adults, Narcissa. We can speak to one other."

Hermione felt like a total idiot. What had possessed her to impersonate the man's _wife_? She wanted to run—perhaps out the window, then she'd at least be back outside, where her biggest problems were his pets. But how was she supposed to extract herself from this hell _now_, when he'd penned her in with his cordiality? Any excuse she came up with sounded like just that: an excuse.

She had to try. "I'm sorry, but I really, really should leave. I shouldn't have come."

He was prepared for battle, it seemed. "You've come for a reason," he said, and he was steady, and determined, and profoundly patient; she knew at once that escaping him without first suffering through a sit-down was going to be impossible. "Let's go to the solarium and have tea. At least say hello to Belgium—she's missed you, you know."

Jesus, Hermione would've never pegged him for it, but this man had serious attachment issues. Narcissa had barely left _that day_. Maybe he'd suffered brain damage in Azkaban or perhaps from Voldemort, and didn't keep track of time very well anymore. Hermione felt a sudden rush of sympathy for Narcissa; poor woman had to babysit this mess for years. She must have the patience of a saint.

Or perhaps Narcissa, like so many people who kept dangerous predators encaged in their homes, just looked at him like a pretty trinket and that was enough for her.

It was easier to relent to his arguments, so Hermione finally did. "All right," she said, grabbing up her suitcase, "just—just a cup, but then I've got to leave again."

He looked smoothly impassive as he nodded and turned to lead the way out of the room, but Hermione noticed him glancing at her suitcase with a guarded expression. Perhaps "attachment issues" was putting it too lightly.

He didn't give her time to second-guess; in a moment he was at the threshold. As Hermione hurried after him, she thought ruefully that maybe the most dangerous thing about impersonating Narcissa Malfoy wasn't the risk of getting caught.

Maybe it was playing her off well enough that Lucius was actually fooled.

* * *

**A/N****: I actually split this chapter; I'm going to try and update more slowly now, since I think people might be put off by my bombarding them with all these chapters all at once. I'm partially convinced I've doomed this story to be read by only a few people—oh well!  
Thank you once again to my reviewers, and ****_please please _****review again, I love to hear your thoughts!**


	5. Chapter 5

Lucius Malfoy led Hermione Granger through his home, and it was fucking bizarre.

She was only too eager to follow. It meant she got to walk behind him and escape those flaying gray eyes, and now she could look around at leisure, too. She did so mainly out of habit: she'd always been a curious creature and Malfoy Manor was spitefully fascinating.

Really, she wished it were ugly or gaudy, because it was likely everything had been paid for with blood-money, and awful things had happened in these rooms. She tried to remind herself of that as she drank in all the elegant décor, from the tapestries to the rushes to the heavy tasseled curtains; everything matched, everything looked so damn _nice_, and the _feng shui _flowed from one room to the next as if it were all notes in a well-rehearsed composition. Nothing crowded, nothing too widely spaced—all of his possessions just fell together in ritzy harmony. How the hell were you supposed to live in a place that was so…

Perfect?

She felt a sudden rush of anger and thought about stabbing him in the back, because it wasn't fair, was it, that he got to lead this beautiful life and he was a terrible person? It didn't seem so far-fetched that he was running the Dark market, not now that she was being drowned in his pretentiousness. All she had to do was play her cards right, and she could be out of here with incriminating evidence in less than an hour.

She needed to keep it together.

He took a sudden left turn and strode through a pair of French doors framed in gauzy white curtains; she followed him, her eyes still fixed on a point on his back—right there beside that poncey braid—where she thought she might slip a knife, but she was then immediately distracted because now it seemed she was outdoors again. Only she wasn't. With a jolt she realized this must be the solarium.

"Thank you, Francis," she heard Lucius saying, but she wasn't paying any attention; rather, she was gawping at the brightly-colored array of plants lined up on racks, hanging from hooks on the domed glass ceiling and sitting in pots along the transparent walls. He must've had every beautiful flower in existence blooming here, most of them out of season, and most of them clearly altered by magic. She wanted to go around and touch everything but she realized her awe would seem suspicious; after all, she _was _supposed to be living here.

She composed her face again and pretended to glace aloofly outside, but then she saw—oh lord—the demon-peacock from earlier, strutting along the northern wall, its black eyes fixed on her. It raised its tail and flashed its golden eyes at them, tapping insistently at the glass, glowering at Hermione, but Lucius had his back on it, thank Merlin.

"I added a few specimens," he said, pulling out a chair for her with one hand, waving around at the lush assortment of green with the other. "I've finally persuaded that damn gypsum weed to bloom. It didn't take to my _Purtinctura_ charm the first few seasons I tried; the leaves also turned purple, and inevitably wilted. Something to do with the composition of chlorophyll, or so says Fergus. Apparently most plants _need _to be green."

All right, so the Malfoys didn't communicate that often, if whatever the hell he was talking about was a multi-seasonal project and he was just now filling her in. Maybe Narcissa wasn't very interested in Lucius' pastimes—and that would be understandable, if what he did for a living was enough of a handful already. Awkwardly Hermione took the seat he proffered, and as he pushed her in his hand brushed along her shoulder. She flinched at the touch.

How did one casually broach the subject of a multimillion galleon organization in the illegal trade of Dark materials? Hermione would know—but the Hermione-Narcissa hybrid was at a loss.

Lucius took a seat across from her, and in a flash the house-elf was there, pouring tea and doling out food. Lucius kept his eyes on Hermione, but it was hard for Hermione not to stare at the elf. She felt an indignant prickle and the words _slave labor_ blinked across her mind when Francis (which she assumed was his name) laid a pastry in front of her and bowed away discreetly, but she couldn't do anything about that now: she was here on a mission.

"Thank you, Francis," Lucius said, and this time Hermione heard him; she was shocked by his politeness. It was forced, it had to be fake, but Franics smiled in the sort of casual manner that would suggest he was often spoken to like this. Well, well, it seemed Lucius Malfoy had learned his lesson about house-elves… "If you would, please fetch Belgium here. Narcissa is undoubtedly eager to see her."

Francis bowed and snapped into nothing, but Hermione didn't get a chance to process the exchange: Lucius was talking again, and his voice inherently demanded her attention.

"How is Draco?"

Hermione blinked. "Fine," she said automatically, a little bewildered. She cleared her throat and allowed a little sarcasm into her voice. "He still finds the management of the Diagon branch quite scintillating." She hesitated—then risked, "He still has an aversion to walking past open windows, though."

Lucius was listening closely; eventually he gave her a rueful smile. "Still doing that, then, is he?" he said tiredly. "I had hoped he'd work through it."

Hermione was confused. Didn't Draco live here too? Did these people seriously lose each other in this huge-ass house? Maybe it was just so big that they had to arrange meetings in order to see one another. The thought nearly made her laugh aloud. What a bizarre life.

She'd just begun to wonder if she should actually eat something when there was a gentle clicking of claws on tile and she glanced over and, once again, found herself eye-to-eye with the dog.

"Belgium," Lucius said, and somewhere amid the tidal wave of fear that the dog's presence evoked Hermione was a little startled by the warm fondness in his voice. The dog's eyes pried themselves off of Hermione for a moment, refocusing on Lucius, and briefly the tail wagged, and the eyes squinted, and the dog licked the air in Lucius' direction, obviously very happy to see him.

But almost immediately it snapped back into kill-mode, zeroing in on Hermione like a sniper. She had about a millisecond, she knew, before the damn thing outed her—so she slipped her wand down her sleeve and thought with all of her might, _Confundo!_

The growling never started.

The dog looked from Hermione, to Lucius, then back again—and she seemed to decide they were the same person. So she licked the air in Hermione's direction, just as she had with Lucius, and wiggled her butt in a joyful, deluded greeting.

"Belgium," Lucius repeated, and the barest evidence of relief underlined his tone; Hermione looked quickly at him. He was watching the beast, glancing from her to Hermione; the smallest of satisfied smiles curled his lips.

Perhaps he'd expected something else to happen. Perhaps Belgium was trained to spot danger or deception—like a sniffer dog at an airport.

The thought made Hermione cold. She needed to be more careful. As Lucius was preoccupied, Hermione pointed her wand under the table at the north wall and thought _Confundo! _again. She saw Fairway the Peacock stagger around drunkenly in her peripherals and had to inhale the insane urge to laugh. In a moment, thank god, he'd shambled off.

"I've found she likes milk," Lucius said, gesturing at Belgium. "Bloody cat of a dog." Lucius beckoned, and thank god the dog hadn't lost its sense of balance, as animals often did when Confounded; Belgium padded around to Lucius' side of the table and climbed right up into the chair adjacent his. Lucius slid the saucer out from under his teacup and poured a bit of cream into it, setting it down in front of the dog, who finally looked away from Hermione to lap daintily at the offering. Lucius massaged the scruff of her neck.

"She's terribly spoilt, I confess," he said ruefully. "I worried about her getting on with the peafowl, but actually they work quite well together." In that moment, he glanced outside, scanning the walls of the greenhouse; his eyes passed over the place where Fairway had been moments before, and seemed further pleased that nothing was there. Hermione felt a wave of perspiration break out along her back.

_So close._

The silence that settled between them was stiflingly uncomfortable, punctuated only by Belgium's quiet lapping. Lucius seemed content to just stare at Hermione like a hungry animal, so Hermione decided to take the initiative this time. "How are you?" she asked. She tried not to wince at how awkward she sounded.

He either didn't notice her discomfiture or didn't care; at her question, his eyes finally drifted away from her, focusing on his tea. "I exist," he said, his tone clipped. "It has been—well, things have settled into their own patterns, as they always do with time. But I cannot say I have been… enjoying myself."

"Oh really?" Hermione swallowed and tried not to rattle her teacup too much. "Why would that be?"

His eyes snapped up in a sudden glare and she recoiled, but then he looked back down again, and his tone was just a touch sharper than before. "I'm sure you did not come to exchange pleasantries with me. What may I help you with, Narcissa? Because to be honest, I never expected to see you in my home again." He peered at her over the rim of his teacup, as if in challenge. A glowing strand of hair had escaped his plait again, cutting across the angled lines of his face, like the edge of a blade.

She stared at him, nonplussed. "Wha—?" and then, with a realization so profound it knocked the wind right out of her, she _knew_.

Christ almighty, she was so stupid. Everything—the house-elf's reaction to seeing her at the door, the empty vanity, all of Lucius' crazy behavior—suddenly it all made _total_ _fucking sense._

Narcissa and Lucius were separated.

And they must have been for some time. How long, Hermione could only guess, but judging by the ardor with which Lucius pounced on her in the bedroom, and the obsessed way he was staring at her now, it must have been awhile—months—perhaps even years since the two had been together in this house.

She actually choked on her tea.

Oh Merlin, she was a real fucking moron, wasn't she? What in the hell was she doing here, meddling around in this domestic mess? She choked harder when she realized that Draco must also be out of contact with Lucius, if Lucius was asking _her_ about him—oh god, she needed to leave, _now_, she couldn't be involved in this clusterfuck—

He was staring at her, looking a little concerned at her coughing fit, his eyes darting between both of hers, and he seemed to realize she was about to go springing out of there like a deer—fuck, she was about to go crashing through the glass and over the hedges, Jesus—but he reached across the table and seized her hand.

"Narcissa," he said, in a crooning tone that sent another chill rushing down Hermione's spine, "forgive me my impertinence. I'm just so _confused_. I never—I had just begun to accept—" He inhaled; his jaw clenched. "I have never asked anything of you, aside from your patience. And when you granted me that, we were _happy_, for god's sake, you must not have forgotten that? And now I can see you've changed, I can see it in everything you do—you're so very different, both you and Draco are, last I saw him I barely recognized him too. And I understand. You must also see that I'm different as well—too much has happened for me not to be."

Then his voice took on a flavor of such vulnerability that Hermione wanted to touch him; her hand closed reflexively on his before she caught herself and tried to pull away again. He held fast. "We have been apart five years. I never wanted it, you know this, but I respected your wishes as I have always done. Five years—the years we needed to remain together the most. Those were vital years of transformation for the both of us. Perhaps we shouldn't turn away an opportunity to reacquaint ourselves." He slid his fingers up her arm, drawing a circle at her jumping pulse-point, tickling the sensitive skin along the inside of her wrist. "Perhaps we might yet undo what has been done."

This was everything Hermione never, ever wanted to hear. It felt like she was eavesdropping on something horribly indecent. As he spoke he looked at her with such raw need that Hermione felt her stomach twist itself into complex fractals; no one had _ever_ looked at her like that, not even Ron at the height of their "love." Hermione thought briefly about Obliviating Lucius and bolting (and perhaps Obliviating herself, too, because she didn't think she could live with the memory of this—and maybe even the dog, for good measure), but something stopped her from reaching for her wand.

This man was evil. It was hard to think that, with him caressing her like he was in this beautiful, brightly lit space. She knew he was evil—his behavior in the past attested to it. He was capable of torturing and killing and god knew what else he must've done in the service of Voldemort; he'd tortured those poor Muggles at the World Cup, he'd run down and terrorized a load of teenagers—Hermione included—in the Department of Mysteries. He'd given Ginny Weasely the diary that nearly killed her and several other children; once again Hermione had been on the list of those affected. He was _evil_.

And yet here he was, sitting in a room full of flowers, surrounded by all the comforts of life, so wrapped up in himself, in his own _entitlement_, with nothing to worry him aside from a little domestic unrest: the one imperfection on his otherwise pristine landscape. As Hermione was sitting there, thinking this, the teapot moved, pouring a little more tea into Lucius' cup, and she knew Francis was somewhere among the pottery magicking it with a twirl of his fingers. _Slave labor_. It sent a bolt of angry energy ricocheting through her, and every justice-hungry cell in Hermione's (or rather, Narcissa's) body pulsed with righteous fury.

He was evil, but society had failed to dole out just desserts.

He _deserved_ what she was now going to do to him.

With as much careful control as she could muster, Hermione affixed what she hoped was a small, encouraged smile to Narcissa Malfoy's face. "I do think we're different now," she said quietly, doing her best to mimic Narcissa's eloquence. "I know I'm very different from the woman I was—so much so that even Draco has trouble interacting with me some days." Fuck that lazy bugger, she'd take him down too if she found out he was also involved with the Dark market, him and his stupid fork pyramid. "I would like to reacquaint myself… but I think we should be cautious. It wouldn't benefit either of us to… slide back into old habits."

He frowned a little, but nodded. "Very well."

"I think we should be… slow, about this," she went on. "We should assume we don't know anything about the other, which is nearly true"—wasn't it just?—"and proceed from there. It sounds foolish, I know, but truly, things are so very different, Lucius. I believe it's the best chance we've got at moving forward."

His name tasted strange on her tongue, but the look he gave her was even stranger: like a mix between defiance and hope. Apparently he didn't like to be told he couldn't have what he wanted right away, the spoilt brat, but he wanted this badly enough that he was willing to comply with her. She tried not to feel guilty—_He's an evil old bastard_—as she reached for her tea and took a sip, soothing her throat, which was still raw from choking earlier. He did the same, and the silence between them was no longer so uncomfortable.

"I suppose it would be all right for me to ask where you are living?"

Hermione—who had been watching Belgium sneak sugar-lumps from the bowl and praying that her Confundus Charm would hold until she escaped—glanced back at Lucius. She wondered just what he might've done to Narcissa to drive her to hide her address from him, and the possibilities made her gut clench in fear, but she maintained her composure; her snap decision to destroy him had her acclimatizing to the game already.

"I think now may be too soon," she said, "but perhaps we could plan to meet again this weekend?"

He was at first impassive, undoubtedly hiding his disappointment, but when she mentioned making plans to see him again his eyes darted up, minnow-like, giving her a look that sent shivers racing over every inch of her skin.

Oh, she was terrible, she really was the worst person on the planet, and later she would wallow in her shame, but right then, she acknowledged that _yes_, he was devastating to look at. He wasn't even attractive in the same way that boy at the bar had been—no; Lucius _lived _attraction. It wasn't something Hermione merely noticed about him, it was something he excelled at, something he'd turned into _weapon_. And when he looked at her like that, with an eyebrow arched and that subtle, incredibly seductive smile on his mouth, her gut clenched again, and she couldn't fool herself that it was fear or any ridiculous muscle memory phenomenon.

Fuck it all, she missed being wanted. She _liked_ being wanted. Even if it was by him.

Or perhaps _because_ it was by him...

"What did you have in mind?" he said, and yes, he was playing up the natural purr in his voice. At some point he must've leaned forward, too, because he was nearer now, a breath away, and Hermione found herself glancing at his lips—dusky pink and perfectly shaped. Were Satan's lips supposed to look so soft?

She could feel word-vomit bubbling up in Narcissa's throat, terrible and inexorable, but before she could start assaulting him with it, a distraction appeared in the form of Francis. The little elf bowed and rushed over to Lucius, leaning in for what was clearly a private word. Hermione still caught what he said.

"Master Malfoy, I hate to intrude, but you've asked to be reminded five minutes before your appointment."

Lucius looked annoyed, but Hermione was astonished when he didn't vent his spleen on the elf; he merely gave a curt nod and said, "We shall be done here soon. Please show my guest into the drawing room with my apologies if he arrives early."

Well now, wasn't this interesting. A guest? What guest? Perhaps she should stick around and have a look-see at this _guest_…

Hermione was just gathering breath to fire off a few questions when Lucius turned back to her and gave her a predatory smile. His words, when they came, were positively _growled:_ "Now, where were we?"

And that pretty much destroyed any silly ideas she might've had about sticking around longer than humanly necessary. He looked so dangerous that Hermione felt a particular clench _not _in her gut that she hadn't experienced in too long. It scared her a little. She decided to put that one down to muscle memory, and then blushed when she realized exactly what she was thinking.

"I may have to owl you," she said, clutching her suitcase so hard under the table her knuckles cracked. _Stop shaking_, she thought. _Don't let him see you shake_. "I have an appointment as well, Lucius, I really should be going. We shall finish this on the weekend, I promise."

He nodded, though it was a grudging gesture, and stood up. Hermione made to stand, too, but Lucius was suddenly around the table, gently pulling her chair out and offering her his hand. "Can I expect your owl tomorrow?" he asked, and he sounded entirely unconcerned, but the fact that he'd asked in the first place betrayed his nervousness. Belgium had gotten up and come around the table; she sniffed at Hermione's skirts, and up-close Hermione could just see the slight befuddlement in the dog's expression.

She looked up into Lucius' cold, gray eyes, but they didn't seem remotely cold anymore. In them, she saw a thousand and one things—a thousand and one things she never wanted to see in the likes of Lucius Malfoy.

What had she gotten herself into?

Taking a deep breath, she reached out, and grabbed his hand—the first she'd ever deliberately touched him. She felt as if she were making a pact, sealing her own fate, and his.

"Yes," she said, "tomorrow."

* * *

**A/N****: Dun dun duuuuun! This actually took me awhile to finish; it was tricky to write and I had to cut out a lot of my own repetitive drooling over Lucius. More time for that later c; Please drop me a line—it's always so inspiring!**


	6. Chapter 6

"God, Hermione, what the hell happened to you? You look like an assault victim!"

"Thanks, Ginny."

"No, seriously, what's going on? And why are you reading _How to Persuade Dogs That You Really Are Their Best Friend And Not A Lamb Chop_?"

Hermione just about laughed—or burst into tears, she wasn't sure. She tucked her book away (a recent purchase) and turned to Harry.

"I ordered the appetizer already, sorry, but you'll really love the tapenade here. I recommend the linguine with the scallops and pancetta, it's so good, and if you request it they'll make it with the quinoa-based noodles, which sounds unusual but—"

"Hermione, I don't even know what that is—"

"And don't change the subject," Ginny chimed in, giving Hermione a stern, Molly-Weasleyish look. She and Harry had only barely settled into their seats, and Ginny was currently preoccupied with shoving James into his high-chair, a task that did not distract her at all from her ultimate goal: grilling Hermione into the carpet. "Are you still having trouble sleeping?"

Oh, Hermione _definitely _wanted to cry. "Not at all," she lied, trying not to think about earlier, when she'd perched on her windowsill and shed a few tears at the glorious sunrise.

Ginny appraised her. "You haven't given any more thought to that _workout_ I suggested before, have you?" she asked, in a would-be casual voice. Hermione went scarlet and glanced at Harry, expecting him to look embarrassed, but he was too busy eyeing the drink list to notice anything else. Ginny, meanwhile, had her eyes screwed into Hermione, that devil's smile playing at her mouth.

This conversation needed some redirection, because the truthful answer was _yes_, she had given it more thought—but she somehow didn't think Ginny would approve of the rather dangerous line of thinking Hermione had been perusing. "How's the baby, Ginny? You're nearly there now, have you decided whether or not you wanted to try the home-birth this time? Molly seemed all for it."

Ginny clicked her tongue and picked up her menu. "Fine, Hermione, keep your secrets," she sighed, "but I'm here when you want to talk."

Talk? Hermione wanted to yell at her. How could she ever _talk_ to Ginny about this horrendous mess she'd gotten herself into? Never mind she was breaking the law for her job and her own personal vendetta—no, Ginny might've gotten behind that. She might've even offered some positive reinforcement if she knew about Hermione's successful excursion into Malfoy's life.

What she _wouldn't_ reinforce were Hermione's tenacious thoughts of Lucius Malfoy pressing her up against his body, or that subtle aroma of him that seemed to linger persistently in her nose, or—god help her—the silk of his fine hair on her skin… sweet Merlin, she wanted to run her fingers through those forbidden locks now that she'd found out just how deliciously soft they were…

No. Somehow, Hermione didn't think Ginny would approve of that.

She started back on the little self-preserving mantra she'd developed around 4 o'clock that morning. _Get a hold of yourself. He's wretched. He's a murderous lying devil and just because he might be slightly not-ugly does not mean I should go entertaining inappropriate thoughts about him. Also, he's old. Old, old old. Dirty old man._

She prized her mind back off Malfoy and tried to soothe herself with a little lemonade, but unfortunately it seemed she wouldn't be avoiding the subject today.

"So Hermione, did you go anywhere interesting yesterday?" Harry asked as the appetizer arrived.

Hermione thought about lying. She _should_ have, considering Ginny was sitting there confusedly waiting for a full explanation, but Hermione simply didn't have the energy for it. She was too exhausted from all the lying to herself last night, over and over, pretending that it _wasn't _the memory of Malfoy—or its attendant sensations—keeping her awake.

So much for the muscle memory theory. The Polyjuice had wore off hours ago; the desire hadn't.

"Actually, yes," Hermione said, taking another sip of lemonade. "I went yesterday."

Harry perked up, and Ginny shot the both of them quizzical looks. "You went to the Malfoys'?" Harry asked, and he had the good sense to keep his voice down.

"Yes," Hermione said, ignoring Ginny's gasp of understanding. "But I didn't learn anything… except that Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy are _separated_ and he was shocked to find her wandering around his house. That, and his house-elf wears glasses."

Harry choked on his water; Ginny gawked. "Oh my god, are you serious?"

"Yes," Hermione said, with a small twisted smile, "his name is Francis and I really want to ask him which optometrist he goes to, because that doctor should be awarded by the Ministry for his or her services to elvenkind. They're still so underprivileged when it comes to medical care."

"Hermione," Ginny said, unimpressed with her sarcasm, "did Malfoy catch you out?"

"No," Hermione sighed. "He just sort of… shrugged it off and gave me tea. Unfortunately his dealings in the underground market didn't come up organically. I left as soon as I could."

She flash-backed to Lucius walking her to the door, his arm twined with hers; she recalled the hard flex of his muscle under the dark fabric, and the bewitched dog trotting alongside them, sedate for the most part, although more than once Hermione felt a cold nose on her ankle and was reminded of just how much danger she was in. Francis had been waiting at the front door with her coat; when he didn't think they were looking, the elf gave the pair of them a darting, searching look that was nearly—hopeful? Worried? Hermione couldn't tell.

Lucius hadn't tried to kiss her or anything, he'd merely stood back with his arms clasped behind him, smiling once, quickly, as he said goodbye, which did not leave Hermione feeling at all disappointed, and frankly she didn't care for thinking about the issue, thank you. At least Fairway had been off somewhere doing whatever it was Confounded peacocks did, and she didn't have to curse him again.

Harry looked sympathetic. "Well, there's still Draco," he said. "Maybe you could try impersonating him instead? It'd probably be easier since you've had to keep tabs on him more than Narcissa."

"No," Hermione groaned, putting her face in her hands, "I found out Lucius and Draco aren't speaking, either. I guess the War put too much strain on Draco's filial affections."

The four of them sat there, Ginny and Harry thwarted, Hermione tormented, James covered in whipped butter, having gotten into the breadbasket while the adults were speaking.

There was no thought in Hermione's head about letting them in on her plans to see Lucius again on Saturday. Although she told herself it was for a good reason—the Dark market needed dealing with, and anyway, it didn't have to be permanent, she could simply vanish when she had her information—she knew going back again was taking things a step too far, outside of the realm of just finding information for work. She didn't want them thinking she'd gone mad.

She already knew that, after all.

Inconsequentially, Hermione kept flashing back to _Aery Derry_, that god-forsaken story, and a large part of her wanted to shrivel up and die knowing she was quite as bad as old Derry himself—and her fate would probably be just as awful. But like a crack addict to coke, she knew without a doubt she'd go back for another hit. It was too much of a temptation now, being lavished with the terrifying attentions of a man she found so desperately attractive, all of her senses heightened by the danger of the situation: it was a rush, a thrill, so wildly different from the unending tedium that had become her life. She had hardly ever felt the sort of sexual frustration he'd managed to instill in her without even properly touching her; it was enough that she was afraid to even look at him again.

So inevitably, she would.

_No, no, no, Hermione, he's old, for Christ's sake, and you're afraid because he'll drag you off and murder you if he catches you—!_

"I guess you'll have to find out some other way," Ginny said, cringing. "Never mind, though. It was a huge risk impersonating Narcissa anyway. Like, my god, what if Lucius Malfoy tried to _touch_ you with his creepy old hands?" She pulled a face. "That's so repulsive. He's like an evil stork."

Harry nodded. "It's probably better," he said. "That man's crazy, you don't know what sort of sick things he gets up to in his spare time."

_Growing flowers_, Hermione thought. But she said, "Yes," and stuffed her face with tapenade.

* * *

Hermione had dutifully owled Lucius the day following their encounter. She'd written as little as possible, essentially just telling him what time he could expect her at the manor on Saturday, and she used a typewriter to hammer it out. She also neglected to sign it in case he noticed a forgery, and was careful to keep a low profile in Eeylops as she sent it off.

She felt a little guilty, now, for calling Draco paranoid. She wasn't any better; in fact she was worse.

* * *

At the conclusion of the War, the Ministry had granted Hermione, Harry, and Ron each an Order of Merlin, First Class, and an ungodly sum of money, as if it thought to repay them for saving everyone's sorry asses from the terror of Voldemort. Harry had donated all of his share to the restoration of Hogwarts; Ron had funneled most of his into Weasley's Wizard Wheezes after being invited onto the staff by George, and splurged the rest on the latest racing broom; and Hermione had squirreled hers away for a rainy day, dipping into it only to support her own SPEW charities until they became self-sufficient (which seemed to happen right after she changed the name from the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare to the Society for Elfish Exoneration—better known as SEX).

What? Her public relations manager suggested a sexier name. How much sexier could you get? Sure, maybe her rallies sometimes attracted unsavory crowds but the elves tended to think it was funny, and it was all for a good cause. Furthermore, Hermione was able to use a lot of humorous wordplay in her speeches, and that made it all worth it.

Anyway, she hadn't touched the money except to help house-elves achieve a better standing in society. Oh, and also to buy herself ridiculously expensive finery that didn't even fit her in order to impersonate another woman to catfish a formidable ex-Death Eater, with the eventual goal of dragging him straight to hell.

Merlin's fucking pants.

After transforming, Hermione pretended she wasn't spending more time on Narcissa's hair today. It wasn't easy to style hair while hiding in a bramble, especially if it wasn't the sort of hair you were used to, and you had next to no experience styling hair in the first place. She had plenty of Polyjuice—she'd stowed about a gallon of it in her magically expanded, morbidly expensive purse—so she wasn't worried about being short on time today; with any luck she'd taken enough that she didn't have to keep sneaking drinks when Malfoy wasn't looking.

The walk up the drive passed quickly, but as soon as she stepped foot in the turnabout, her way was blocked by a familiar white shape.

"We meet again, Fairway, my old enemy," Hermione whispered.

The peacock pawed the ground like a bull about to charge—but before he could sound the alarm, Hermione waved her wand and Confounded him again.

She walked casually past him as he staggered around, confused; she'd been practicing on pigeons and was pretty confident she'd cast the spell strongly enough to keep him drunk all day. She then casually flicked her wand at the closest fig tree; nothing visually changed, but on the inside, all of the fruit had fermented. That ought to cover up Fairway's behavior if Lucius stepped out and saw him.

Smiling to herself, Hermione mounted the stairs to the front door and knocked; almost before she'd finished, the way opened and Francis' head appeared, beaming up at her from behind his rims (which, now that she noticed, were about the size of normal glasses and therefore too small to cover his eyes; he wore them like reading glasses, and for a second Hermione was reminded absurdly of Dumbledore).

"Mrs. Malfoy!" he said, and everything in his tone suggested that he'd been convinced she wouldn't show up. "Please come in! The master is just finishing with a guest, but he has requested your presence in the drawing room nevertheless."

Hermione stumbled a little. "The drawing room?" Her gut fell like a ton of bricks. _All right, keep calm. Remember your breathing exercises._

Francis nodded, tended to her coat, then happily bounced off down the hall. Hermione followed with a little less exuberance. Thankfully, however, Malfoy was not going to allow her to dwell on past traumas; as Francis opened the door ahead, Hermione heard the distinct sound of male voices locked in argument, and that snapped her out of her micro-panic attack quite nicely.

Who was Malfoy talking to? Hermione was stepping lighter now, trying to eavesdrop, but in a second Francis' face appeared in the drawing room doorway again, looking quizzical.

"Is the Madam sore of foot?" he asked with great concern. "Shall I put on a bath?"

Hermione blushed and shook her head. She'd been very careful about preserving Narcissa's modesty so far, dressing before she transformed and changing clothes only after the potion wore off. The last thing she wanted to do was get naked in this damnable house with _that man_ nearby.

Yes, that was the last thing she wanted.

"No, sorry, I was only admiring being here again," she said, bustling forward.

She got in the room just as the men were standing up: Lucius, so very distinctive, rising from the winged armchair to the right of the mantle; and another man, unfamiliar, standing from his seat on the left. The only evidence of any unpleasant exchange was the high color in both the men's cheeks.

"Ah, Narcissa," Lucius said, and his eyes ratcheted onto hers, and Hermione felt a great swooping in her stomach and had to look away; she disguised her discomfort by focusing, instead, on the second man. Lucius turned to him as well. "I apologize, but as I mentioned earlier, I had a prior appointment—"

"—with your wife, I presume?" the man finished, though he smiled as he said it; he moved forward, and Hermione noted that he was of a height with Lucius. Reflexively she offered him her hand, and he took it, bowing over her wrist.

Hermione's heart was beating fast; she tried to memorize everything she could about him, fully intending to track him down later. He was slender, more so than Lucius; he had black hair that tended towards curling, and large, pale green eyes. She doubted he and Lucius had just been having a friendly chat: there were a few rolls of parchment lying on the coffee table and two cups of tea beside them, cold and untouched. Hermione was itching to take a peek at those papers, but somehow that didn't seem like something Narcissa would do.

She tried to look frosty rather than nervous as she drew herself up in front of the stranger. "And who is this?"

The man glanced, smirking, at Lucius, as if she'd just told a hilarious joke; Lucius clenched his jaw and shot Hermione a very obvious nonverbal warning. Hermione swallowed and took a step back as Lucius moved, placing himself between her and the man.

"I'm afraid we'll have to leave the discussion for another day," he said quietly, offering the man his hand. "Please send me an owl with an appropriate time."

"I will," the man said, moving past Lucius without grasping hands; he gathered up the parchment on the table and scanned Lucius head-to-toe. Lucius stood tall under the scrutiny. "I hope we'll finally be able to make a little headway then. Any at all would be a vast improvement."

"I agree," said Lucius, a low warning in his voice.

The man strode up to the fireplace, took a pinch of Floo powder from the silver canister on the mantle, tossed it into the flames and stepped in after it shouting, "Knockturn Alley!" He was immediately whisked away.

Hermione didn't have time to register any disappointment she might've felt about missing his name, because in that moment Lucius suddenly whirled around, grabbed her by the forearms and brought his face very close to hers.

"What is your favorite book?" he demanded.

"What?" Hermione spluttered.

His eyes narrowed, and his voice became a veritable snarl. "You heard me."

And she did, a split second later—she blurted the first thing that came into her head, and as the words left her mouth she prayed to God that, if He couldn't spare her any luck on this, then at least would He allow her a quick death?

"_Jane Austen: Seven Novels_."

The tension held, winding tight, vibrating in the air like a thread about to snap—and then it did.

Lucius relaxed. "I apologize," he said, releasing her. She almost wished he hadn't; without his support her legs were ready to collapse out from under her. Oh thank Merlin she and Narcissa had the same tastes in reading, at least. "I had to check. I was mistrustful of the letter you sent, and you—well, you'd never spoken directly to any business associate of mine in the past."

But Hermione, still coming down off her fear-high, used the adrenaline to muster up a little anger. "Well, I certainly recognize you," she said, drawing herself up again, trying to hold herself like Narcissa did. Lucius looked at her, a grim, guarded expression on his face, as if he could smell an argument on the horizon; that look gave Hermione more confidence. "Honestly—mistrustful of my letter? Really, Lucius, you know elves don't have the best handwriting, I instructed mine to type it because I was short of time this week." She added a bit of steel in her voice, for effect. "You are not to grab me anymore. I shan't bear it. I am a new woman, and I will thank you to respect me, or it shall be far longer than five years before you see me again."

He glanced away, down, away again; he seemed not to want to look at her, as if he were abashed, or perhaps annoyed—she couldn't tell.

It was fucking lucky that he was preoccupied, too, because while he was fiddling with his cufflinks, Hermione spotted Belgium at the window, and hand just thrown a curse at the dog when he was raising his eyes again.

He looked at her quizzically.

"I thought I saw a bee," she explained away the wild arm movement she had to make in order to send the curse far enough. She could hear Belgium in the flower bushes and wondered if, in her excitement, she'd Confounded the poor thing too hard.

Hermione was blushing, she knew she was. Lucius looked at her, then at the window, his cold eyes narrowed. Then at last seemed to accept her story, and she'd barely had time to thank god for her luck when he was retreating toward the fire.

Mimicking his associate, Lucius grabbed up a pinch of Floo powder and tossed it into the fire. As the flames roared green, he glanced over his shoulder, and did a small double-take when he saw Hermione still standing in her original position, looking totally lost. "Come along," he said impatiently, beckoning.

"Where are we going?" Hermione asked. She didn't move; if they were going out in public, if someone spotted her with him, someone who knew Narcissa was out of the country—

"The estate on the shore," he said curtly, an eyebrow raised. "We'll be staying there for the weekend." He smiled a little, and Hermione wondered how he could look so condescending and _still _make her stomach knot like that. "Unless you had something planned for us?"

The touch of disdainful laughter in his tone made it clear that Narcissa, evidently, did not plan their excursions. But Hermione knew she could _not _go away with him. She might've had enough Polyjuice to sustain her, but what if she couldn't get away to take it? "I—"

"Good," he said, cutting neatly across her, "I had Harriot prepare it. I know it's your favorite."

Hermione's brain snapped like a sun-baked rubberband. She thought about disapparating, but somehow she didn't think it was possible inside the manor; if she recalled correctly, Ron couldn't disapparate out of the cellar when he'd been locked down there while Bellatrix tortured her. She thought about Stunning him—but by the time that possibility occurred to her, a few seconds had already passed, and he was watching her so closely, and his wand could be up his sleeve, just like hers, and she still didn't think she could take him in a duel—what if she lost?

"I just think it's quick, going away together right now," she murmured, trying to sound demurely nervous rather than scared fucking shitless. She smoothed down the front of her dress, then crossed her hands as she'd often seen Narcissa do. "I hadn't planned on it."

Lucius' eyes bored into hers. He looked ethereal, demonic, the smooth alabaster planes of his face lit sidelong by the green flames. She noticed how, in general, he was very still—he made very few unnecessary movements. It was inhuman. "What better way to reacquaint ourselves than return to the place of our honeymoon?" he said, and he sounded so very devastating then; she was captivated and horrified all at once by the low, rough honey of his voice. "You may remember why you married me to begin with—who can say? And if not, well, what harm is there in a short holiday?"

She was trapped. In that moment, she knew there was no getting out. He had that quiet, patient look about him that let her know he wouldn't relent until he got what he wanted. She thought again about trying her luck with dueling, but then she saw him reach over and pick up the serpentine cane leaning on the arm of his chair just out of her sight, and she died a little. He offered her his hand.

"Very well," she said, and she hoped she sounded aggrieved, not defeated. She crossed the room and took his hand—she noted again the warmth of it, the roughness, and she felt his strength when it closed on Narcissa's delicate fingers. He could rip her apart.

As that horrifying thought crossed her mind, Lucius suddenly yanked her in, his arm snaking around her waist, their bodies aligned, the tip of his nose almost-but-not-quite touching hers. A peal of wild energy—was it terror? Was it lust?—raced over the surface of her body, her hairs standing up, her blood rushing everywhere but her brain. She was forced to look into his eyes.

Demon eyes—cold gray fire. She felt his breath on her lips.

They stepped into the hearth.

"Shorecliff Drive," was all he said; she tasted spearmint. And then they were gone.

* * *

**A/N****: I didn't deliberately withhold this chapter from you all - life got in the way of this update. Honestly I don't have the self-control to deliberately hold off on posting chapters, so forget I ever entertained that idea. And remember when I said this was going to be a few chapters? HAH.**

**_Please leave a review you beautiful, beautiful creatures!_**


	7. Chapter 7

When the green flames died down, Hermione was allowed a single glance around the room—driftwood furniture, sea tones, gray light beyond the windows—and then complete sensory overload, because Lucius Malfoy was kissing her.

She gasped. Her arms were out at her sides, fingers splayed bizarrely, like she'd touched an electric wire—and she may as well have: a shock of pure, wild energy ricocheted through every nerve ending in her body, rendering her as stiff and useless as a corpse seized in rigor mortis.

It wasn't like being kissed by anyone else. Later, Hermione would compare it to every other kiss she'd had in her life, and marvel at the impact that pure terror had on lust. Malfoy didn't headbutt her, like McLaggin. Nor was this a slobbery Krum snog. And thank God he didn't shove his tongue down her throat and try to explore her esophagus, like Ron too often had. No, this was a whole other league of liplock _entirely_.

Through the white noise in her brain, she thought of a scientist preparing a glass slide for viewing under a microscope: the way Lucius kissed was methodical, programmed to remove space, remove doubt. He slid his lips up against hers deliberately, determinedly, invading her entirely, inhaling as he did so, and the slide of his breath was nearly as erotic as the hot touch of his lips. He was firm and smooth and he yielded just-so and he tasted sinful, he tasted like Amortentia _smelled_. He moved in closer—he was everywhere, the heat of him was surrounding her—she registered that his lips were moving, parting hers, his sharp tongue flicking out and dipping for half a second into her mouth, stroking the sensitive inner flesh of her lower lip before sliding away, depriving her. One large hand was buried in her hair, holding her steady; his other was god knew where, she couldn't feel it, or perhaps he'd shoved it through her navel and was currently tying her up in knots from the inside out—

The hand in her hair dove suddenly to her flank, because he no longer needed to hold her head. No, _she_ was doing a marvelous job of keeping their lips from drifting apart. Somehow, those were _her _hands on him, they'd moved without her knowing, one clinging to the nape of his neck, the other buried knuckle-deep in that delicious hair, Merlin it was like touching music—he was so close, so fucking close she was running a fever, she was clearly unwell and needed to lie down, her head was swimming, she no longer had control of Narcissa's rogue body—

And then he was gone. All of it, the passion, the feel of him: he was taking her pleasure and walking away with it across the room. In the absence of the wall of his body Hermione staggered and nearly fell. It took her a second to right herself; there was so much heat in her face that she knew she must be tomato-red. She could still taste him: spearmint and tea. An ache had sprung up inside her that hadn't been there during the Floo. Hadn't been there for a long time, in fact. It was acute.

"It's been some time since we've been here," he was saying, breezy as the seaside view beyond the room's arched windows. Hermione stared at him. He hadn't escaped their tryst entirely unscathed: a delicate, oh-so-smug smile was playing at his lips, which were perhaps a shade darker than before, and there was a blackness to his eyes that sent another round of shivers racing over Hermione's—_Narcissa's_—skin.

What had she been telling herself? That he was old? Right. He was old. Dirty old man. Oh, yes, and he was evil. He'd done some terrible things. Now, _how _to get him to do that thing with his tongue again…

"Do you remember? It was spring last time. And cold, Christ! We stayed indoors all week." She noted he was still clutching his cane. Ah, so that was why she'd only felt one hand on her… interesting, really, that he hadn't dropped it to snog her…

His guard was still up.

But Hermione felt oddly centered now, like his touch had burnt away her nerves. "No," she heard herself say; her voice sounded distant. "I don't remember that."

He turned to her, and eyebrow raised. "Oh?"

"No," she said, firmly. She gathered her skirts and stepped neatly after him, and then past him, over to the window, seating herself on the padded bench; the view was lovely, if terribly high. She could see why the place had been named Shorecliff.

He was watching her. She couldn't muster up any fear. Her synapses had been overfired and no longer worked. "No, I suppose you wouldn't remember," he said quietly, and _oh_ _yes_, he was moving close again: she could hear the lithe footfalls on the hardwood. She pretended not to feel any sort of visceral reaction. "It was so long ago, after all."

She glanced at him, then back out the window. Silent. She knew anything she dared say could backfire; perhaps keeping quiet was her best route now.

Evidently so.

He leaned his cane against the wall and slid up behind her on the bench, his arm draping around her, the flat of his palm on her abdomen, the wide plane of his front tucked up against her back. He rested his chin on her shoulder and peered out at the view with her—the view she was no longer really seeing.

She tried _so hard _not to tremble, not to move at all.

She could feel him smile, tracing along the edge of Narcissa's lovely profile with those glinting eyes. "You should tell me about yourself," he murmured, low and throaty. God, his _voice_. It should be illegal. It was hazardous.

Hermione swallowed. "What do you mean?"

His smile morphed into a grin, and for a wild second as she saw the gleam of teeth in her peripherals she thought he might bite her. "You said you were a _new woman_," he purred. "Why don't you fill me in?"

"Why don't _you _fill _me_ in?" she ground out; she could feel his throat on her bare shoulder, the weight of his jaw, his breath on her, the velveteen skin-on-skin. The contact was burning her alive. Bits and pieces of her mind kept insisting, in a fragmented chorus, that it was fear she was experiencing, and panic, and sometimes fear and panic manifested in strange ways, and she was just so, so terrified and sweet Merlin she needed to leave, now, to save her own sorry hide (which was still very present and mortal under the enchantment of the Polyjuice). The larger, more pragmatic part of her acknowledged that she was so ridiculously turned on she might've been a teenager again, like her hormones were out-of-control, and this explanation had far more weight to it, because a fearful person did _not _fervently wish that their object of terror would lean _just a little closer…_

She felt his lips press briefly to her ear. "Whatever are you talking about?"

"Tell me what you've been up to," she said. _That was casual, right? That sounded casual. Not at all prying or accusatory or too high-pitched_.

His quiet laughter sent a jolt right down to the pit of her stomach. "Business, as usual." His fingers pressed on her ribcage, slipping along the ridges of her corseted dress, up and down. "But I know how that bores you."

Hermione steeled herself. "Actually, with Draco now working at the apothecary, and my always having to visit him there, I've found myself becoming more interested."

He tilted his head; she knew he was looking at her, his eyebrows raised. "Oh really?" His voice dripped with disdainful surprise. "I was of the opinion that women generally detested the discussion of corporate matters."

Hermione felt a sudden pang of annoyance. "Well, it's true," she said, and before she could stop herself: "Just because I'm a woman does not mean I cannot be interested in business. There are plenty of women involved in business."

A dead silence met her words. He stopped petting her; he stopped moving altogether. Now _that _was terror—that flood of mind-warping adrenaline had a distinctive feel she couldn't confuse with anything else. She immediately wanted to shrink away from him, but with his arm locked around her like that, she knew she wouldn't get more than a few inches.

Then his hand started again—up and down, sensually. "I suppose," he said, a playful lilt to his voice (she allowed herself to breathe), "but I meant I would like to focus on other topics, perhaps more interesting ones that may further our… understanding of one another." He leaned in closer and started nuzzling at her neck, breathing in her scent; she felt a sudden, sharp nip of teeth at the same time as a sudden flick of fingertips across the peak of her breast, and she jumped a little, gasping. A rush of heat settled between her legs, and she couldn't deny it: she was so wet she knew her knickers would be ruined. If she'd been blushing before, it was nothing compared to now. Lucius chuckled.

"M—Lucius," she said, and felt immediately ashamed at just how breathy Narcissa's voice sounded. God, she was _not_ supposed to be allowing this, let alone _enjoying it!_ She pushed his hand away, tried to shrug out of his embrace. He let her go without a fuss, watching like a hawk as she settled on the other end of the window seat, but his smile was cruel, and his dark eyes told her just how unfinished he was with her. It made her blood run cold.

Then he said the very last thing she was expecting. "Let's talk politics. Where do you stand on Shacklebolt's reinstatement?"

She gawped at him for nearly five seconds before catching her own unladylike expression and smoothing it away. "You assume the discussion of business will bore me, and you think a better alternative is _politics?"_

"Very well," he said, unfazed, "Quidditch. Which team are you supporting?"

_Now he's just fucking with me._ "Lucius, really."

He looked at her slyly. "I rather thought you liked Quidditch."

Hermione raced through her memories and brought up the Quidditch World Cup, during which she distinctly remembered Narcissa Malfoy looking revolted, sitting just behind them in the top box. "You know very well I do _not_, Lucius."

They regarded each other; Hermione got the distinct impression he was still testing her, feeling her out. It made her heart jump like a frightened rabbit, but not in the same sort of frenzied way as before. No, she knew if she just kept her head on her shoulders, he'd have no reason to suspect. She could make it through this unharmed.

"You did not attend the Piotrowski concert last month, did you?" he asked.

Hermione perked up. Clements Piotrowski was a rather famous wizard composer, one Hermione was all too familiar with, if her vinyl collection had anything to say about it. He was the genus behind some of the most beautiful pieces she'd ever heard, and she made time to see him at least once a year. "Oh, yes," she said at once, "I adore him. Did you attend?"

His smile deepened. "I'm afraid I did not," he said. "I haven't been able to for some time. His concerts are always rather—intimate—and unfortunately I do not blend as well in the crowd as I used to." He glanced askance at her. "Such a small guests list… I'm surprised you didn't attract unsavory attention, being out in public again… after the War."

He was zeroing in again; she straightened under his gaze. "No one paid me any mind." She waved it away. "It was worth it."

"With whom did you attend?"

Hermione didn't immediately understand the question. "No one."

Lucius hummed, leaning back, casting his eyes out to sea again. "I imagine it was rather lonesome. I find it difficult to picture, you out on your own. Do you _always _attend concerts alone now, Narcissa?" His chin ticked up, and a touch of indolent disdain colored his voice. "I rather thought you'd… seek company for such outings."

Hermione felt a twinge of something; perhaps it was defensiveness, she really couldn't place it, but it compelled her to speak. "Well… not for Piotrowski. His music is enough."

"I quite agree." Lucius stood, and before Hermione could so much as blink he'd wandered over to the door. He paused at the jamb. "Lunch is in fifteen. I thought perhaps we'd take it on the porch or in the garden. You'll be staying in the master bedroom—you recall the master bedroom?" He levelled a truly wicked look on her. "I certainly do. I'll just go settle in, and allow you the same courtesy. Fifteen minutes." And then he was gone.

* * *

The master bedroom of Shorecliff wasn't nearly as large or opulent as the one in Malfoy Manor. Then again, Hermione had time to examine this one, and the one at the manor was nothing but a fleeting memory. Perhaps she'd oversold it.

When she was certain she was alone, Hermione took a swig of Polyjuice (hopefully the damn stuff didn't actually contain alcohol, what would that say about Narcissa?), and, assured of her anonymity, she dropped her bag on the ottoman at the foot of the large bed and gazed around. It was like sitting in a brown-and-teal tangle of driftwood. Really odd place for a honeymoon. It seemed more like the sort of place you'd go for a fishing trip. But then, Narcissa had surprised her so far, perhaps the woman had a particular liking for these sorts of things. Somehow, she doubted Lucius did.

She glanced up at the ornately carved headboard, the covered canopy, and blushed furiously when she realized that Draco may have very well been conceived here. Oh _god _was that a thought she didn't want to pursue. She darted into the washroom and splashed water on Narcissa's face, trying to wash away all the evil images. In the process she caught a glimpse of her stranger's reflection in the mirror—large, unbelievably blue eyes fringed in long Bambi lashes, ageless skin, golden hair. she looked like an airbrushed model, and Hermione couldn't even say it was all glamor charms: Polyjuice didn't transfer those. Narcissa was just naturally flawless.

It wouldn't do. In the private of the bathroom, Hermione admitted that she was going about this for unjustifiable reasons. It was _wrong_. Perhaps she could apparate. Her wand was up her sleeve, she could try apparating back into the bedroom, just to test it out. But when Hermione spun on the spot and attempted to will herself into nothing, all she achieved was a bumbling pirouette that had her tangled in the shower curtain, slipping on a bar of soap and crashing into the tub like a drunk teenager at a house party.

Oh. Oh, shit. She winced. Well, so much for that. She was stuck here. And—oh shit, was that the door? Hermione had just registered the knock before Francis, accompanied by an even tinier house-elf, came trotting in. The both of them stopped abruptly when they noticed her crumpled in the tub.

"Madam!" Francis gasped, hurrying over and helping her out (he was surprisingly strong for his size). The littler elf stood back a bit, looking at a loss for what to do. Like Francis', this elf was wearing a silk pillowcase embroidered with the Malfoy crest, only this one was done in teal and brown, to match the house. When eventually the elf spoke, the voice was undoubtedly feminine, but not nearly as squeaky as she ought to have been. "Is the Madam faint? Shall we draw a bath?"

"Oh, no, thank you," Hermione said, and she couldn't help but smile. Did every elf react to an adverse situation by drawing a bath? Their first-aid skills were seriously lacking.

"Mrs. Malfoy, the master has requested that Harriot and I lead you to the gazebo, since he assumed you'd look for him on the veranda," Francis was saying. He was still watching her with the utmost concern, as if frightened she might collapse again. "Are you quite sure you're all right, Madam?"

"I'm fine," Hermione said firmly. "Why did he send the both of you?"

They hesitated. "The master was—he thought perhaps you'd want me to fix your hair," said Harriot, looking extremely nervous.

Hermione burst out laughing. "Oh did he?" She rolled her eyes, and looked at herself in the mirror. Narcissa's hair was indeed mussed from their—from that—_thing_ that happened. But to actually send a house-elf to fix it?

Shallow, misogynic bastard.

Hermione didn't feel nearly as nervous around the house-elves as she had around Lucius; after accepting Harriot's offer and settling herself at the vanity, she turned her attention on Francis.

"Remind me—I forget—who prescribed you those glasses?"

For a moment Francis went a bit cross-eyed as he focused on his spectacles. "Oh, these? It was the master who gave me these." He looked suddenly quite subdued.

Hermione raised her eyebrows. Hmm, intrigue. "Lucius, you mean? He gave you those?"

Francis settled himself on an ottoman and fiddled with the edge of his pillowcase. "The master sent me with a note and the proper funds to an optometrist in Diagon. When the doctor owled them a week later, he gave them to me. This was shortly after the Ministry passed the Elven Liberation Act."

A rather dark note had crept into the elf's voice, but Hermione was not deterred. "But that means you're a free elf, doesn't it? Don't glasses count as clothes?" She looked at his pillowcase. "Why are you still dressed as a slave? You're welcome to wear whatever you want now!"

Hermione could tell Francis was itching to leave, to avoid the confrontational situation, but—having worked with elves so often before—she knew what to do. "Please tell me, Franics. It's important to communicate."

Eventually Francis caved. "When that awful house-elf liberation group passed the law requiring the freeing of elves, the master asked which article I wanted. I was ashamed—I had always been a good elf, I'd always put my duty first, but the master is very mindful of the law, and—well—I had always had difficulty seeing, and since it was mandatory"—he half-glanced at Harriot, who, now that Hermione noticed, was wearing a little pair of ballet flats—"I opted for these. But I didn't want to leave Mr. Malfoy, or the manor."

"Nor I," said Harriot in a low voice. "That awful SEX group can make us take clothes, but it still cannot tell us where to work."

Hermione frowned at her. "So you both oppose the Elven Liberation Act?"

They swallowed visibly and exchanged a frightened look; Hermione immediately backed off. "Never mind, it's unimportant," she said, trying to appear aloof again. But she really couldn't help herself. "You two sound different than other elves. You speak differently."

"The master wanted change after the Act," Harriot said quietly, starting to comb through the golden hair. "He wanted to be sure us elves followed the Act to the tee; there were horrid people checking on us, you see. Fergus was the first to adopt the human methods of speech and to take a free name"—she sighed—"but luckily the master was pleased, he said it made us more personable too, so the rest of us followed."

"Fergus?"

The elves gave her an odd look. Harriot answered, though she sounded very bewildered. "The master's personal elf. Fergus manages the upkeep of all of the properties and he directs all of the Malfoy elves. If the master needs his elves to work in synchronization on a large project, it's Fergus he collaborates with. He's been in the family for generations."

Feeling she was treading on dangerous ground—since Francis was looking at her with some concern, as if maybe she'd suffered brain damage—Hermione decided to shut her face. In absolutely no time at all, her hair was done to perfection, and she was being led back through the house to the garden.

It wasn't quite as sumptuous as the one surrounding the manor, since not so many plants would grow in sand, but whoever the gardener was (and Hermione had a suspicion it was Harriot) they were a genius. The elves led her along a stone path to a spot dangerously close to the cliff, where a gazebo stood facing the shoreline; they bowed away at the steps, and after a deep breath, Hermione threw herself again into the lion's den.

Lucius had shucked his outer robes and undone the topmost button on his shirt; he'd also given free rein to his hair, which eddied around his face like threaded platinum. He stood when she arrived, holding out her chair—_why did he have to be such a gentleman, the bastard?_—and without his robes Hermione could see the outline of his body, the impressive length of his strong legs, the hard span of his shoulders… She immediately looked away, focusing on seating herself. He pushed her chair in and sat himself across from her. Damn those eyes to hell.

They were silent for a time, eating. Hermione was momentarily thwarted by all the fucking cutlery, it was supposed to be lunch for Christ's sake, she normally ate it with her _hands_—then Lucius spoke. "I apologize for earlier. I should not have spoken down to you."

Hermione's hands stuttered and she nearly injured herself with the crab fork. She cleared her throat. "That's all right. I mean—I forgive you."

"I should be able to speak freely with you about whatever topic you desire. I understand Draco's work at the apothecary has piqued your interest; I imagine he hasn't been talking it up, but it's not my place to decide what you may or may not take interest in." He took a bite from his scone and chewed thoughtfully. "As you know, my work has always been a complicated affair. You met my associate earlier—"

"Yes, who was he?"

Lucius smiled. "I don't know his name. He goes by _Ink_."

Hermione scribbled furiously at her mental notes. "And what is it you do?"

"I am a distributor."

"Of?"

Lucius chuckled. "Drugs, Narcissa. Illegal potions, substances and items. Dragon eggs and Doxie Dust seem to be all the rage now, but difficult-to-come-by potions have always been our best sellers."

Hermione's heart paused, considered, then kept beating. She'd always known he was an evil bastard: here was more proof. Not something she could use in court, but at least it was confirmed that Belby was onto something.

Why, then, did she feel her stomach plummeting like that?

"I see."

He tilted his head at her. "You look upset."

"Well, I didn't expect my husband to still be involved in the same sort of activities that destroyed our family." The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Hermione wanted to slap herself; for a second the idea of being in Narcissa's position was so real that Hermione actually felt a pang of hurt, as if it were actually her own husband running around conducting criminal enterprises behind her back. She blushed scarlet.

Lucius merely raised an eyebrow. "I didn't destroy my family."

Oh god, more uncharted territory. She needed to be nonchalant. Hermione did a good job of rolling her eyes. "I tire of the logistics."

Malfoy threw back his head and laughed, then—a deep, candid laugh, so unexpected that Hermione jumped a little. He really was magnificent when he laughed… "You may not be so quick to judge if you had ever attended a board meeting." He smirked. "Would you like to? There's one next week. You would be allowed to attend as my guest."

Hermione all but salivated. "Oh, yes."

He stood. "Very well, that matter is settled. Come—the wind's picking up. Let's go inside." He looked at her slyly as he helped her from her chair, then suddenly yanked her in, drawing her fully against his body and pressing his lips again to hers. This time was no less dizzying than the first, only now she became aware of something foreign against her abdomen. Merlin, was that—? Was he—?

But Lucius drew back before she could lose her head; twining his fingers with hers, he led her determinedly back through the garden. "The elves have been positively frothing to draw a bath… Join me."

* * *

**A/N****: Deepest apologies for the wait, I had major writer's block and lots of life to deal with.  
Warning: things get rather unruly in the next chapter c; Btw updates happen faster with more ****_revieeews_****...**


	8. Chapter 8

**Mind the rating. **

* * *

"A _what?"_

Hermione tugged against Lucius' grip and tried to break away, she even literally dug her heels into the gravel in an attempt to slow him, but he only laughed and pulled her in, wrapping an arm around her waist and clamping her to his side.

"Lucius, I don't think—"

"Come now, Narcissa." Lucius had her inside now. They were in the building. She'd been dragged several meters in the house before she realized she should've tried to apparate outside, and damn her for not doing so, because now she was _trapped_ and she needed to do something drastic in order to—

"You've never refused me before."

And then he rounded on her suddenly and forced her back up against the wall and he was kissing her again, and she couldn't think; she was reduced to a motionless, powerless observer. She could feel both of his hands on her now, one in her hair, the other stroking a bold path down her back, fingers splayed over her ass. He gripped her and hoisted her up, and she was pinned, he was grinding against her in slow, sensual movements and sweet Merlin there was nothing wrong with this, how could there be anything wrong with _this?_

Her hands flew up to steady herself, scrabbling at his shoulders, over his back; she dared not admit even to herself that she spent a great deal of time stroking his neck and hair and the strong ridge of his jaw, and yes, it _looked _like she was coaxing him on, the little moans she was emitting may have been construed as consent, but if somebody forced her under oath right then she'd only admit to playing her part to stay alive. He was a criminal, for god's sake. The way he kissed was _criminal_…

She could feel him pushing against her core, hot enough to burn and she found herself making a muffled noise that was totally inappropriate, but when his lips relinquished hers for air and his eyes slit open to ratchet onto hers, the black ice in them silenced her. He didn't give her time to recover, instead going off to torment her in other ways—layering soft bites down her neck, nipping her ear—a gasping moan broke out of her throat, and she tried to push him off. She really did. Only it was difficult, because he was literally carrying her through the house now, so obviously she couldn't try too hard, otherwise he might drop her and then how were they supposed to keep snogging? Anyway she doubted she could push him off, what with her legs being wrapped so tightly around his hips…

She became aware of her surroundings again when her bum hit the edge of a countertop. It was like emerging from a deep sleep: blinking and disoriented, it took her longer than necessary to realize she was in a bathroom, _his _bathroom; a sunken tub full of bubbly water stood just off to her left (Merlin the elves worked fast!) and to her right and center was Lucius, and _sweet Jesus_ he was making short work of her clothes. She'd lost her heels and all of Harriot's efforts on her hair had been totally wasted. She just had time to register how suddenly loose her dress was fitting before it fell to her waist and all that protected Narcissa's modesty was her brassiere.

_Narcissa_.

"Wait—_wait!"_

To her great astonishment, Lucius stopped. They locked eyes, and for a long moment, Hermione had no idea what to feel. She was simultaneously relieved and deeply disappointed and terrified and overwhelmed by the enormity of her desire.

Then Lucius gave her a sinister half-smile and turned up everything a few more degrees. He took her hands and placed them on the front of his shirt, then stood there braced on either side of her, waiting. The unspoken invitation was clear. This was the turning point. This was when she decided—

"I need to leave."

For a second he looked surprised. Then his polished veneer reemerged, maybe out of habit, but more likely it was because Hermione hadn't removed Narcissa's hands from the front of his shirt. She was teetering. And he knew he could push her whichever way he wanted.

"We've only just arrived." He leaned in, until all she could see were those demonic eyes. He caressed her face, went in to nuzzle her neck. "No one need know," he murmured into her ear, and that awful voice sent a wave of lust rushing through her, across every inch of her skin until it ultimately gathered between her legs. Her cunt clenched fruitlessly. Merlin she wanted him. "Come have a bath with me. Such a simple thing." He tugged at her lobe, flicked a bra strap off her shoulder. She still hadn't taken her hands off him. He ran a firm palm down her chest, cupping her breast in the fabric, clasping her lightly. She shivered. "Everything else can wait. All other decisions can wait. Reacquaint yourself with me—remind yourself how it _feels_. And then you can walk away and, if it is your wish, we needn't ever speak of it again. What harm could it do?"

It was wrong. Wrong. Everything was _so wrong_.

"I'm not the same person, Lucius." She was stuttering, but in Narcissa's voice it sounded like birdsong, fragile and feminine. Lucius inched forward like a cat scenting a broken wing. "I'm a completely different person. You don't even know me. How can you do this without even knowing who I am anymore? I don't even want to do this."

Well, it wasn't an outright lie. Hermione may have been on fire but she had a very strong suspicion that Narcissa _didn't_ want this. Wasn't this some sort of rape? Wasn't Hermione essentially an accomplice, holding a woman down while Lucius had his way?

No, it wasn't that intense. Narcissa wasn't here and wasn't being harmed, not directly. But it was still a horrible thing to do to a person's body—their personal sanctuary—and however Hermione felt about Lucius, she had no personal quarrel with Narcissa. Who _wasn't _being hurt?

Lucius wasn't interested in letting her run through that particular internal debate. He took her face in his hands, gently. "Ah, but that's the allure," he purred. "If you were the same person, I wouldn't dream of doing this." And then he kissed her again, and her mind was made up for her.

She flicked a button through an eye. _Bastard_. She flicked another. _Bigot_. And another. _Terrorist. Liar. Killer. Convict. Drug-dealer. Disaster of a man._ She didn't even pause at the last one, but slid it free, then pushed the white fabric off his broad shoulders, revealing every sculpted slope of his pale torso. _Demon. _

He was luminescent, mutely powerful, lined with muscles that flexed catlike under his sateen skin; her eyes were immediately drawn to the stripe of blonde hair at his lower abdomen, running from navel to beltline. She gulped and flushed and looked into his face, only it wasn't safe to look there, either: his Sickle-bright eyes gored into her, the soft pink of his lips drawing back in a triumphant grin, flashing bright white teeth. Oh fuck. He'd won.

Her bra vanished and she shivered in the cold, instinctually shutting her eyes like a terrified virgin. She didn't want to look at Narcissa. She didn't want to think about how twisted this was—all she wanted was to keep on basking in Lucius Malfoy's delicious attentions. Touching and being touched. It had been _so long _since she'd been touched, and it had never been like this…

Alarm bells were clanging in her head but she shut everything out. _No one need know_. She had never done anything wrong in her life and a suppressed part of her desperately wanted to experience this—this one thing, this one little breath of passion in her passionless existence. Just this one. _Such a simple thing_. She'd never have anything like it again and by God she wanted it now. She could swear she was forced, she could convince herself later without much trouble; she barely felt like there was any choice at all, anyway. Or alternatively she didn't have to ever think of it again.

There were holes everywhere in her little farce but right then, she couldn't give a fuck.

Lucius was more than willing to hush her thoughts.

She had expected him to be tender and gentle, like Ron had been when they'd first given up their mutual virginity, and every time after. Her experience with sex was limited to those slow, clumsy touches; she hadn't considered things could be different. She soon realized how absolutely absurd she was.

Lucius was _not _a gentle individual. In one movement he'd ripped her dress from her and now she was in her stockings and knickers, and in a second he'd drawn the snakehead wand from his pocket—when had he unsheathed it?—and brought it down in a slashing movement so reminiscent of Dolohov that Hermione almost screamed. The last of her clothing fell away. He was kissing her, only it wasn't like before: his movements were no less incendiary but he was rougher, more brutal, almost frightening as he wrenched her closer. Now there was more skin contact than Hermione knew what to do with. Luckily Malfoy had some ideas.

"Oh, oh my _god_." The blonde head had descended and that wicked mouth was on her nipple; Hermione looked down and had the immediate, bizarre impression that she was watching some very interactive porn, because the willowy woman's body below her was _not _hers, yet she could feel Lucius' lips on the sensitive peak of the breast, and she definitely felt it when his hand circled up and flicked the dusky pink, hitherto-unattended nipple on his left.

The sight ramped up her arousal so violently and unexpectedly that she moaned aloud, and the volume of it disturbed Lucius, who had until that point allowed his eyes to drift closed as he focused; they slid open now and darted up at her, arching an eyebrow, but he did not stop his torment, didn't even slow, and Hermione practically shuddered herself off the counter. Hands—hands she controlled—flew up and buried in Lucius' hair, pulling at the long strands, scraping the scalp; the fingers she moved were long and delicate and manicured, and so very beautiful. Hermione looked down at the body below her and saw skin nearly as pale as Lucius', skin that dipped and curved over long legs, narrow waist, lovely womanly hips—she looked between her legs and saw not curly brown hair, but a soft dusting of gold, glinting with need. Even her _bellybutton _was a perfect little circle. Hermione didn't have any desire to explore Narcissa's body tactilely (would it have been homoeroticism or masturbation at that point?) but when Lucius slid a hand up her thigh and between her legs and strummed a fingertip from her needy opening to a torturous millimeter just below her clit, something about watching him doing it to Narcissa, but experiencing the sensations firsthand, drove Hermione completely insane.

_"Please, Merlin, oh my god, Lucius, holy-Jesus-fuck."_

Somehow he understood; the shark's grin he gave her made her shudder again, and he ran a light, teasing touch over the nub. The ensuing shot of pleasure made her gasp and she instinctively tried to buck into him, but in a moment the _bastard_ stood, toeing off his shoes and pulling one of her hands away from his hair and down to the clasps of his pants.

There wasn't any room for another monologue about his flaws: a hot white fog now occupied most of Hermione's headspace and she wasn't capable of much else but ripping away at his clasps and yanking his pants off like some sort of sex-crazed zombie. What she was experiencing wasn't normal arousal. No. She was so turned on the switch was broken. Good lord, how the fuck did Hermione_ goody-two-shoes _Granger come to this?

She did pause, however, when he stepped out of his clothing and was finally naked, but her stillness was due to awe rather than any reformed misgivings. His legs were nice out of slacks, long and athletic, but she wasn't exactly gawping at those; all of her focus was on his cock, which stood out rigidly from the hard lines of his hips, pointing right at her as if in accusation. She really shouldn't have stared, it was so fucking suspicious, she was supposed to have seen him a billion times before, but Lucius seemed beyond noticing any incongruences in her behavior; he stepped closer and the smooth, thick length of him pressed against her thigh. It burned like a brand. He gripped the base and treated himself to a massage as he watched her watch him; she could feel him twitching and pulsing and it sent another fiery rush of lust directly to her center. She was a little stunned he was touching himself in front of her, actually; she thought men tended to be uncomfortable about things like that. Ron had always been sheepish whenever she'd walked in on him, anyway. Lucius, apparently, had no such reservations.

She nearly giggled. _Arrogant git. You'll do exactly whatever you want, and no less._

He spoke. "Touch me." It was not an invitation. His hand withdrew, but almost before it had she reached out, nearly overeagerly, and took him in her palm, feeling along the scorching steel of him (too tentatively, she feared, but she really didn't have a mind for maintaining appearances just then). He was heavy and her fingers hardly closed around the breadth of him; she had a sudden, weird fear that perhaps he'd hurt her going in. _Going in?_

He was watching her touch him with a look of such stark hunger she wondered if he'd gone celibate during the separation, and this was the first he was getting in five years. If so, he hadn't really taken to abstinence. Eventually he got impatient with her caresses and yanked her roughly off the sinktop and back into his arms; she was disoriented and wondered why he was carrying her _away_ from the bedroom. Then he dropped her.

She yelped before she hit water and was immersed to the crown; this tub was _deep_. She heard laughter above her, distorted by the water, and she barely had time to push back above the surface and gasp in a breath before he'd slid in after her and shoved her up against the tub wall.

Evidently Lucius enjoyed foreplay. Hermione was far from complaining. There was a strip of metal lining the shower door in front of her, and Hermione could see their entwined reflection in it. She could just make out her own expression: raw desire, and on Narcissa's face it was breathtaking, and very much mirrored in Lucius. Together, surrounded by the suds of the bath, they looked like a pair of angels locked in sin. It sent yet another wave of arousal coursing through her; she was so hot she felt close to passing out.

Hermione forgot about morals and reason and simply watched, mesmerized, as Lucius pushed her golden hair aside and proceeded to attack her neck and shoulder, layering kisses and teeth up and down her rattling pulse-point while his hands went _everywhere_: one alternated stroking, flicking and twisting her nipples—which were now hard enough to hurt—while the other did obscene things between her legs. The water lubricated their bodies and made every one of his movements a slick sensory nirvana. He knew precisely where to touch her and the total lack of fumbling ineffectuality was enough to bring her right up to the sweet, teetering brink. She reached down and gripped his cock, which was poised between her legs, and he growled and slid a pair of fingers inside her, corkscrewed once, and she came.

Pleasure seized her and shook her so forcefully that she nearly threw Lucius off; he had to clamp an arm around her waist as she bucked and writhed and gasped and shouted through the flood, and he wouldn't let it die down—no, if anything he was working her harder now, forcing her through an extended climax. Oh, no, this was too much. This was scary. How in god's name would she ever reassemble herself after this? How would she ever be whole again?

As she began to come down she heard a quiet laugh in her ear.

"And you're quite sure you don't want to do this?" When she nodded without a moment's hesitation he laughed again, louder, earnestly. "My god, you're a siren." He ran his lips down her trembling spine. "I cannot believe how erotic this is." He grabbed her hip and spun her around; bubbles eddied and swirled away like clouds. Hermione felt hot, flushed, relaxed from coming, but not comfortable; she was once again being stared down by Lucius Malfoy, and she doubted if she could ever get comfortable with that. She wondered suddenly if it was just Narcissa's body that was responsible for how strongly she'd felt that orgasm, and perhaps Narcissa was simply more sensual than her, that led to a whole line of awful depressing thoughts about her own body, and why the fuck she herself had never been ripped out of her skin like that before?

Lucius once again interrupted her downward spiral. He snatched a glass phial balanced on the edge of the tub, upended it over his palm, then tilted Hermione's head back and began to massage its creamy contents into her hair without so much as a word of explanation. She stared at him, openmouthed, for nearly ten seconds before she pulled herself together enough to enjoy it. Even in this he wasn't gentle: there was pressure behind his fingers as he worked the shampoo into her scalp, but the firm strokes of his hands felt all the better for it. The soap itself smelled like peonies and sweet peas and she immediately loved it.

Thus Lucius transitioned them from torrid near-sex to a surprisingly soothing round of grooming and massaging. Hermione thought blearily that this was almost as good. He rubbed down every inch of her—hands, arms, shoulders and neck, chest and back, even the hypersensitive flesh at the apex of her legs, which he plied and rubbed with increasing pressure until she was fully aroused again and was starting to rock into his fingers, at which point he withdrew, flashing his teeth to let her know that, yes, he was torturing her on purpose and loving every minute of it.

_Infuriating arsehole_. The thought had barely crossed her mind when she felt his fingers again, only now they were on _her_ arsehole. She gasped and tried to wriggle away but he clamped a hand on her hip and held her steady while he stroked a line from her tailbone to perineum, his face inches from hers, drinking in her expression. His lips were parted and he idly tongued a canine as he worked, his fingertips circling the forbidden ring of muscle, black lust in his eyes. Hermione whimpered and grew feverish and was on the verge of moaning as she thought he was going to push inside her—when he moved on to massage her thighs, his expression all indolent amusement.

_What a—fucking—motherfucker! _She glared at him, but her anger lacked fire; she could hardly be angry at him while he stood there rubbing her feet, occasionally pecking an innocent little kiss to her ankle or sole. Narcissa was not ticklish, not anywhere, and for once in her life Hermione marveled at being touched without feeling the need to burst into hysterics. It was… strange, and not necessarily in a pleasant way. She had reflexively laughed and pulled away when he'd splayed his hands over her stomach, but the sensations hadn't come, and she'd felt rather dumb about it and blushed at him. Lucius, for his part, seemed to be thoroughly amused, and had watched her the whole time as if cataloguing her reactions. There was something rather different about his languid gray eyes now, something impish about his smile.

_I cannot believe how erotic this is_. The sentence niggled at Hermione. It was sinister, somehow, and she was just putting her mind to figuring it out when Lucius dropped her foot and drifted close to her again.

"Now me." Hermione's jaw dropped. He smirked, slid a finger under her chin and closed her mouth. "Go on."

Hermione went scarlet but didn't pass up the opportunity to feel him up. She'd been inwardly dying to touch him back. He was hot under her fingertips, his skin glowing, a pink flush in his fine cheekbones; his eyes slid half-closed as she took her turn massaging shampoo into his long, sumptuous hair.

As she worked the strands he drawled, "I had been thinking about cutting it short—"

_"NO!"_

Her shout made both of them jump. Hermione clapped a sudsy hand on her mouth and turned apple-red. He stared at her a moment, taken aback—then broke out into full laughter and beckoned for her to go on washing.

The process was shockingly relaxing. More so than when she'd been on the receiving end. Hermione wished she'd done something like this before, in her actual life; already she was getting familiar with the deep, aromatic natural smell of him, how he moved, the small tics in his expression as she applied herself to his body. It was a very good way to learn someone intimately. He was in great shape, even considering his age, and as she soothed away the tenseness in a bicep she blurted without thinking, "How do you keep your form?"

His jaw ticked up. "Liquor bottles are heavy."

She _tsk_ed him, slapped his arm. "Come on."

He looked amused at the gesture. "I mainly swim."

"Oh do you? I did that for a few months, but the chlorine really dried out my hair, it got unmanageable and it's already so insane on the day-to-day. I moved on to jogging but it's hard on your joints, I was always waking up sore. I really can't get over how ridiculous people look on the machines too, so lately I've just been supplementing all the jogging with this lifting regimen—"

She stopped dead. Oh god. She'd forgotten she wasn't Hermione, and the very last person on earth who would've dumped all that on Lucius Malfoy was Narcissa. Her full-on panic attack was curtailed sharply, however, when Lucius—whose expression hadn't changed from one of quiet interest—suddenly said, "The elves tend to the pool, there really isn't need for chlorination. It's the best way I've found of working out excess energy. Well, aside from running down Belgium in the mornings when she steals the paper, but she hasn't done that since she turned two." He raised his eyebrows at Hermione. "Why have you stopped? There's a knot in my shoulder."

Hermione had just been trying to imagine the severe, stoic figure of Lucius Malfoy chasing a puppy through the halls of Malfoy Manor, but it was just too bizarre. She shook her head and went back to massaging him. When her hands reached his stomach and she'd barely laid a fingertip to the streak of hair below his navel, he shifted, very subtly redirecting her fingers off his abs. _Ahh, so it's true: every monster has a weak spot_. She didn't try to exploit it, partially because he was still quite terrifying to her and she wasn't sure how he'd retaliate, but she smiled to herself and set to rubbing down his back. When she reached the base of his spine she didn't hesitate a second to run her fingers lecherously over his firm ass. She wasn't any kind of expert but she knew enough to appreciate his absurdly gorgeous rear-end; for his part Lucius seemed to like her admiration. He grinned at her like she'd given him a verbal compliment, anyway.

She was silently squirreling away all of this information about him, his body and the whole encounter—up until she realized that none of it had anything to do with her actual purpose there, and she couldn't do anything with it later.

Except think about it when she locked him up.

He moved again, and his cock brushed against her arm.

She started and glanced up at him; he raised an eyebrow. _Go on. _She reached out and took it, pushing it through the ring of her fingers from base to tip, while simultaneously pushing all other thoughts from her head. He was so hard; the knowledge made her warm with pride until she realized that he wasn't really seeing Hermione Granger, and therefore she couldn't take credit for the state of him. Still, there was something inherently marvelous about a man at full mast, triply so if that man happened to be Lucius Malfoy. She couldn't get over how _good _it felt to touch him: there was no give to him, and when she reached the base and squeezed, his member flexed like a muscle; her own breath quickened as she pulled her hand back up to the ridge of the head, then up further, running the pad of her thumb over the slit. Lucius gave zero reaction except to lean into her hand, but she could see the jolt of his heart against his ribcage, and the slight glaze in his eyes.

Ultimately, though, she was reminded that she couldn't read him at all. She'd taken his passive expression to mean she should go on plying him; in actuality, he'd had enough of bath-time and was ready to proceed to something a little more personal. He moved, twisting left, grabbing a towel off the nearby rack and yanking it open; he spread it on the marble at the edge of the tub, close enough for a corner to dangle into the water. She had no idea what to make of this strange behavior and was about to ask before he grabbed her, lifted her unceremoniously from the water, sat down on the towel, forced to lay back and then (as a foggy idea of what the hell began to form in her brain) he pushed her legs apart and solved the mystery for her.

"Oh _yes_," she announced, and almost laughed at the blatant relief in her voice—like she'd been plagued all her life by some terrible puzzle to which Lucius had just presented a simple, wonderful solution. Fucking _hell_. He was doing that thing with his tongue, only not on her mouth now. She knew which she preferred. He scraped oh-so-lightly over her clit with his incisors and she nearly writhed out of his hands. He ate her in the same exact way he kissed: methodically, his movements slow and forceful one moment, light and teasing the next. For a while she couldn't understand how he was changing tactics so perfectly to match the rise and fall of her sensitivity, and assumed it was because he knew Narcissa's body so well. Then it struck her: he was _paying attention_ to her, focusing on her body, moving with it. She was moaning and arching her back almost incessantly; her breath was uneven, fluctuating; she might've even been embarrassed at her own wanton behavior if she'd been in the state of mind. But she must've been communicating properly, because Lucius was using all her nonsensical output and turning it into the most stimulating experience of her life. Merlin, she'd had this done to her before, but for whatever reason it hadn't been much of a revelation then. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that it hadn't been _Lucius fucking Malfoy_ doing it.

Without drawing back, Lucius shouldered her legs, took her hips in both hands and yanked her closer, working quite forcefully now. In the process his nose brushed her clit, and that did it. She came screaming.

While she twisted and bucked her way through another orgasm he kept her mostly pinned to the floor with one hand; the other was God knew where, she really didn't care. He was strong; through the fog Hermione thought back to how easily he'd carried and pulled her around, manipulated her body—_Narcissa's_ body—as if she were made of feathers. When the last delicious pulses died away and Lucius finally drew back, she brushed the damp gold hair out of her eyes and sighed happily, basking in the loose-limbed afterglow. She couldn't remember a time she'd felt more relaxed. After a moment, however, she noticed that Lucius was still moving, and sat up to see what he was doing—just in time to watch him come all over her stomach and breasts. He went on stroking himself through the eruption and a few moments after; then he sighed, too, and sunk back into the bath, drifting off to sit across from her, eyes closed. The picture of contentment.

Hermione stared at him, shocked. Eventually she unstuck her tongue. "Why did you do that?"

He didn't move. "What do you mean?"

"Why—" Hermione coughed and blushed. "Why did you do that?"

He smiled, but his eyes stayed closed. "Repeating the same question does not provide clarification, Narcissa."

Hermione tried to manage her embarrassment. "Why did you finish yourself off just then?"

He finally opened his eyes and gazed at her curiously. "Why does it matter?"

_Because I wanted to do that, you prick. Who just tosses off in the middle of foreplay?_ Hermione looked down at herself and reddened a little. She got up and wiped herself clean with the towel she'd been lying on, then she slid back into the tub, sitting uneasily across from him while he went on lounging in his post-coital haze. Was it still considered post-coital if he hadn't even fucked her?

She could've _sworn_ they were going to get to it. She glanced askance at him, wondering. Perhaps that had been some sort of perverse attempt at chivalry. She _had _said they should move slow. But it was a stretch, and she seriously doubted that was the actual reason. He hadn't shown the slightest interest in taking things slow since the whole mess began.

His eyes opened. "Let's go outside."

Hermione gaped. "Right now?"

"Certainly. Or—" He glanced at a clock hanging over the toilet and scowled. "Damn, we won't have enough time to walk down to the water today. Tomorrow, then. But there's time to visit the nesting site." He pulled himself out of the tub, grabbed a fresh towel and slung it around his hips, striding out of the room before Hermione could get out another word. She re-washed herself at top speed, grabbed a towel and hurried out after him.

He'd already mostly dried his long hair and was belting up his trousers. For a moment Hermione wasn't able to choose between all the questions yammering in her brain. She eventually settled on, "Do we have to go now?"

He raised an eyebrow at her. "I suppose we don't technically have an _appointment_," he said sarcastically. "Is there something else you would like to do?"

_Yes: you! You fucking prick!_ "It's windy," she said, hoping to god it was.

"I rather think 'windy' is the best sort of weather for this," he responded, now buttoning up a fresh shirt. "Go on, get dressed, I'll give Harriot her instructions for dinner in the meantime." When Hermione didn't move, he tutted impatiently. "We are not having sex right now, Narcissa. Now stop acting like a petulant child and put on some clothes."

Hermione's temper soared. "Oh _excuse me _for thinking we were going to have sex!" she burst out. "It just seemed like the logical conclusion to—to all of that!" She waved at the bathroom door. "Why aren't we having sex, then?" It was on the tip of her tongue to blurt out _Is it because you think I'm ugly?_—then she remembered she was wearing Narcissa's lovely skin, and none of those old insecurities applied anymore. That was probably why their previous activities had been so mind-blowing: Hermione had been free to enjoy them without worrying about how she looked or what her partner thought of her. She took a moment to marvel at just how much self-confidence impacted sexual gratification.

Lucius looked irritated. "Because," he said, "there is a specific way I would like to fuck you, and I don't particularly feel like doing it now." He stopped and faced her down. "Are you going to come with me, or will I see you at dinner?"

_Prick_. She was on the verge of telling him that he could fuck himself with dinner when he added, "Harriot tells me the cliff has never been so active before. You'll regret missing the takeoff at sunset."

She had no idea what he was talking about, but (damn him) her curiosity was piqued, and now she _had_ to figure out what the hell he meant. She could've asked, she supposed, but if Narcissa and Lucius had honeymooned here, the real Narcissa would know. "All right."

As she left she did her best not to think about what had just happened, but it was impossible. She replayed everything in double speed and groaned to herself. She now had a head full of dreadfully incriminating memories that she could never, ever divulge to anyone. If she was smart, she'd leave. If she was smart she'd walk right out of the house in her towel and apparate home, and never make contact with Lucius Malfoy again.

Who would've thought. Hermione Granger—a total fucking idiot.

* * *

**A/N****: Will Hermione ever make the right choice and leave the house? Will Lucius reveal the specific way he intends to fuck her? Will Hermione's friends find out that she's morphed into ****_Whoremione?_**** Join us next week on The Catfish: A Tale of Extraordinarily Bad Decisions!**

**Also did you know that if you leave a review, a Skittle will pop out of your USB drive? It's true! Try it!**


	9. Chapter 9

A few steps outside of Lucius' bedroom Hermione remembered that Shorecliff Drive was as foreign a place to her as Malfoy Manor, and just like back then, she was once again reduced to wandering strange halls with increasing desperation, looking for a room that the real Narcissa could've found in a heartbeat. The longer it took, the more suspicions she'd arouse, and god knew she didn't want Lucius to start firing off his security questions again.

Fuck it all, but this was too much stress to deal with in one day.

As luck would have it, she only had to run in a blind panic down about six hallways before she spotted her salvation in the form of another house-elf. He was bustling away in the opposite direction carrying a small laundry bag and a shoebox, but he stopped when she called after him, "Wait!"

He turned to face her. It wasn't Francis like Hermione expected; this elf looked considerably older, and his expression wasn't nearly so pleasant. He, too, wore a silken pillowcase. Hermione had a suspicion that all the Malfoy elves wore them as a sort of uniform, similar to the Hogwarts elves and their towels. His particular one was dark gold.

"Oh thank god," she gasped, sagging with relief. "Could you help me? I'm lost."

The elf looked her up and down with a surprisingly critical eye. Hermione tensed. "Interesting," he said, and she started at his voice: totally human, deeper and older than Francis' but with the same upper-class accent. No wonder Lucius had approved of the change. Hermione hated to admit it, but they were much easier to talk to than the elves she'd worked with at the Ministry. She didn't necessarily support the elves changing so much to appeal to wizards' preferences, and would never suggest it to one, but in her blackest of hearts, she preferred it the Malfoy way.

"What's interesting?"

He raised an eyebrow and put his nose in the air, looking very patrician indeed. She wondered if his duties over the years had included raising the Malfoy children. It would make a lot of sense. "You have vacationed at this property dozens of times. Now it seems you're unfamiliar with the layout."

Hermione gaped at him. It took a long minute for her to unstick her tongue. "I'm just… I'm a bit disoriented."

His eyes narrowed. "I see. Well, you're in luck: I've laundered your clothes and gathered up your shoes each from the back porch and the west stairwell"—he hefted his parcels—"and was just in the process of bringing them to your room." He turned and resumed walking down the hall, calling back at her as he went, "Come along, then, and mind you don't drip on the hardwood."

Hermione had to jog a little to keep up with him, clutching nervously at her towel. She had a strong suspicion that this was the elf that Francis and Harriot had mentioned earlier. Lucius' personal elf. Fergus, they'd called him. She wanted to confirm it but couldn't think of a way to do so that wasn't risky.

Anyway it didn't matter, for in a moment he'd led her into the master bedroom, set her clothes down and announced, "If you somehow lose your way again, Mrs. Malfoy, please call for me."

"Thank you…" Hermione paused, then dared to add, "Fergus." She was ready to play it off if she'd gotten it wrong, but to her massive relief the elf only bowed and apparated. She let out the breath she'd been holding and sent out a silent prayer that she'd never have to deal with him again. The other two had been pleasant company, and Fergus had reminded her of a butler. The sort of butler you'd read about in a shitty murder mystery novel.

Hermione busied herself with drying and dressing, paying closer attention to the tasks than she normally would have. She could feel the thunderous avalanche of shame hurtling down on the edges of her mind; if she lost focus now, if she allowed herself to stop and think, she would be consumed. But without Lucius nearby to run his hands—and mouth—over every inch of _Narcissa's_ skin, she couldn't generate enough distractions to fend off her own crushing scruples for long, and once she'd stepped into her heels and pulled a comb through her damp hair, there was nothing left to do but sit down on the edge of her massive bed and sob miserably into a pillow sham.

Oh Merlin. Oh god, what had she _done?_ If anyone ever found out about this, she'd lose everything—her friends, her job, possibly her life (if Lucius was the one to catch her). She was hanging in the balance now, all because she'd been such an impulsive idiot and allowed herself to take a bath with Lucius Malfoy.

She laughed a little, suddenly, mid-sob. It was so fucking _ridiculous_. Lucius Malfoy had just taken a bath with—and done a few unmentionable things to—a Muggleborn witch, and he hadn't even noticed! She almost wanted to rub his bigoted face in it. But that made her think about his bigoted face, and what he'd rubbed it in earlier, and was immediately pulled back into the remembered pleasure of it.

She caught herself when she felt a now-familiar hot flush traveling down her body. Jesus, when had she become such a mess? She was Hermione _fucking_ Granger. And Hermione _fucking _Granger had never even come close to allowing her libido to govern her decisions. It was just—_him_. He was to blame, really. She would've had no trouble keeping her head around anyone else on the planet.

She tried to find her way to the foyer. Truly. She gave it her all. But when she rounded the same corner past the same portrait of the same ugly seagull _six fucking times_, she was forced to acknowledge that she was too directionally challenged to go on. She needed help.

With a little groan of defeat she called out, "Francis!" and then, when no response came, "Harriot!" Fuck it all. They must've been busy, or the magic hadn't worked because Hermione didn't carry the Malfoy name, and they therefore weren't bound to her summons.

_Carry the Malfoy name…_

Hermione shook off the thought as if it were a poisonous spider, and yelled, "Fergus!" with a break in her voice.

He snapped into being in front of her, bowing once (or rather, jerking his head a little). "What do you require, Mrs. Malfoy?" And then, without missing a beat, "You have been crying."

"I—no," Hermione hiccoughed, "I've just got allergies. I need you to lead me to the foyer. It's been so long since I've been in this house that I've lost my way again."

He stood there watching her closely for far too long, and at one point as her nerves peaked Hermione wanted to scream at him for being insubordinate. The impulse shocked her. Jesus, it was happening. Two days in Narcissa's shoes, and she was already going against her own life's work. She was turning into one of _them_.

"This way," he sighed at last, turning and flicking his fingers. Hermione noticed a rather nice watch looping his tiny wrist.

Lucius had apparently been waiting on her for quite some time. As she entered the front room she spotted him lounging in a window seat with a nearly empty tumbler in his hand, peering out at the misty view, his sleeves rolled up and his topmost buttons undone. He'd tamed his hair back in another plait; Hermione found herself wanting to undo it again, just to card her fingers through the strands and pull away at the kinks. He didn't turn as she and Fergus approached; the elf gave him a real bow and said, partially at the carpet, "I've located your wife, Master Malfoy."

"So you have," he said at the window; Hermione couldn't help but stare at his lips. A snipped of memory—him, naked, twined and writhing with her in the water—sprang across her mind's eye. She could feel the blush rising in her face and quickly looked down. "Thank you, Fergus. If you would, please instruct Francis to strip the fruit trees. They've fermented and all of the animals are drunk. A peafowl tried to fly into a third-floor window and injured itself. Also, remind him to feed Belgium. She's passed out at the moment but will be hungry when she awakens."

The elf bowed and snapped away. Hermione gulped. Lucius must've gone to the manor and back while she'd been bumbling around Shorecliff like a lost child. She felt a stab of remorse for the injured bird. She hadn't meant to hurt any of them. Then she thought perhaps it had been Fairway, and she didn't feel so bad anymore.

Lucius stood; his eyes were boring into her again. This time she forced herself to return his stare, doing her best to emulate Narcissa, though it was difficult with her blushing so furiously. He leaned in—she thought for a moment he'd kiss her, and almost jumped forward to meet him, but he merely took her hand, twining his fingers with hers. Then he made for the door.

He led her down a stone-flagged path out a side gate and along the edge of the cliff. Hermione had never been keen on heights; she kept her eyes straight ahead, trying to pretend there wasn't a sheer drop just a few feet to her right. But as the path began to descend down the precipice, becoming more rugged and challenging, she found herself flat against Lucius' side, clinging hard to his arm as if for dear life, and damning Narcissa's heels to hell. More than once she shut her eyes and relied on his guidance. He chuckled at her. Prick.

At a particularly nasty bend in the path Hermione abandoned all pretense and slid up behind him, locking her arms tight around his waist and pressing her face into the center of his broad back. Fuck all that nonsense about Gryffendor bravery, this danger was too real. Lucius grunted a little and tried to wriggle free but she made a sobbing noise and held on tighter. He laughed. "Good lord, woman, where is your composure? Here—take off your heels." When she didn't move, a soft warning crept into his voice. "Narcissa." She squeaked again. "Do as I say."

Hermione gulped and knelt shakily to undo her straps. When she pulled them off, he took them from her, then—to her horror—knocked her legs out from under her and hefted her up in his arms. She screamed and clawed for purchase at his shoulders. He winced. "Good god, woman. _Relax_." He caught the look of dull shock on her face and gave her a brief, remarkably natural smile. "We're nearly there."

It was too surreal. He went on walking; she found herself staring at him, unable to look away, not the smallest reason being that the only other things to look at were the death-plummet to her right, and the rickety path ahead. In the daylight he looked damn near a god, so very refined and aristocratic even with his shirt undone, his hair so shockingly white it was blinding, his eyes like polished coins. She felt the play of his muscles all around her and experienced the now-familiar burning in the pit of her stomach. Christ she hated herself sometimes.

Her fingers loosened on his shoulders, and eventually she dared to loop her arms around his neck. His lips curled up in a corner, smugly, and he glanced down at her. She must've forgotten her brain back at Shorecliff, for within minutes she was leaning into the crook of his neck and breathing him in. He smelled sublime. She heard him chuckle again.

"Open your eyes."

Hermione obeyed only reluctantly—then gasped loud enough to make him wince.

They were standing in the middle of a wide stone ledge with a spectacular view of the cliff face and the frothing sea below. The sun was slanting down now, bathing everything in orange. Hundreds of winged figures were taking flight off the crag, each about the size of a large cat; Hermione instantly recognized them as drakes. Each one was a different vibrant hue, and all together they spiraled up on the high winds and formed a whirling, glittering tower of color, punctuated here and there by a kaleidoscopic burst of flames. Some rose up nearly to the clouds, clasping each other in what appeared to be some sort of mating ritual; others folded in their leathery wings and hurtled into the water, only to shoot up again with a silvery fish in their jaws. It was mesmerizing.

"Oh wow," she breathed. Lucius set her down and handed back her shoes; she yanked them back on distractedly as she wandered right up to the edge, forgetting her fear for a moment. "They're so beautiful."

He wandered up close behind her; she felt his hands, warm and heavy on her hips. "This is the largest known colony in Briton. They gather like this just once a year to breed." He gestured at the cliff, where Hermione could just make out the rough stony nests built into the side and, within them, the tiny, wriggling young. After a moment Lucius added, "Draco used to love this."

She glanced at him quickly. For the most part he looked nonchalant, but having spent so much time staring at his face, she could distinguish the sadness under the well-practiced mask. Her immediate instinct was to touch him, comfort him, but at the last second she remembered herself and drew back. _He's a criminal,_ she thought, looking into the aquiline face, the sharp eyes. _He's wicked and whatever happened between him and Draco was probably well-deserved_.

But she couldn't resist sticking her nose where it didn't belong. "I sometimes feel as if I never listened to your account of what happened five years ago," she said delicately, twining a golden strand of Narcissa's hair around her index finger.

He raised an eyebrow at her. "That may be because I never really provided one."

She shot him a darting look. "So why don't you now?"

He hummed. "I could delve into it. But first I want to know the reasons that have led you to ask."

It was on the tip of her tongue to go on layering her ruse, and spout some nonsense about how, if they wanted to reopen their relationship, he needed to be honest with her about everything. But something made her stop. She moved her eyes slowly over his face, coming to a rest on his lips. They looked soft and warm; she remembered them on her flesh. She finally gave him the truth. "I don't think I understand you. And I want to… badly."

A line appeared between his eyebrows. "I find it shocking that you do." He seemed to come to a decision. "Very well." He sounded more resigned than anything. "I don't feel this will settle matters, but then, how could it possibly hurt? The simple truth is that the War destroyed me. I may have brought it upon myself, and it is certainly no excuse for my behavior, but it is why everything happened as it did. At times I think I must have died when I arrived in Azkaban; my memories from then until after the Final Battle are all surely ones I pulled from the depths of hell." He looked into her eyes. "I know you and Draco both believed I failed you. And why wouldn't you, when I spent most of the miserable affair wandless? I also knew you resented me for bringing this debacle into our home in the first place." He ran a hand fretfully over his hair, scowling at the flat red horizon. "So I resorted to the only thing I knew when faced with disaster: I became angry. When Draco confronted me after the Battle, I gave him my wrath. Anger was all I had."

Hermione listened with her jaw hanging open. "Why didn't you just reassure him? The War was damaging to everyone. People need each other after tragedy." She thought about Draco, crying out, surrounded by the Fiendfyre. "He was traumatized. He needed you to comfort him." She paused. "Why didn't you apologize to us? Aren't you sorry?"

His eyes snapped around and he glared at her. For a moment she believed he'd yell at her. Then gradually his shoulders relaxed, and his breathing grew soft again. He looked puzzled. "I have never been sorrier. But I offered no apologies because it would have simply been too little, too late. A meaningless gesture. You and Draco would have rejected them, and I feared that rejection. I sensed that an altercation was inevitable, however, so I did a selfish thing. I gave you both a reason to leave. It was less painful that way."

Hermione felt a massive surge of some unnamable emotion. When she opened her mouth and spoke, it manifested as anger. "So you pushed your family away because you were afraid of being vulnerable?" She had no idea where all this feeling was coming from, but she abandoned reason and went on riding it through. "That's terrible. Th—_we_ needed you, and even after everything you couldn't bear to abandon your pride for us."

Lucius tilted his head at her. "Do not presume to understand."

Her temper flared. "I can presume whatever I want! You—you're such a coward!"

His mellowness didn't hold in the face of that; he straightened his spine and moved closer, towering over her, and she was struck suddenly by his height, the breadth of his torso. "How dare you?" he breathed; she shivered and the rumbling malevolence in his voice. "You dare judge me? You know nothing about what I have been through, about how much I pay for my mistakes. To have _my family_"—he thumped a forefinger into his chest—"come to me expecting shelter from the storm, when I have none to give—how could you possibly understand? To watch _my child _suffer at the hands of a man that I had pledged my life to, and to be forced to stand by and _watch!"_

He made an enraged noise in the back of his throat and stormed off, back towards the path, but Hermione was all fired up on a passion that didn't even concern her; somehow she sensed that he hadn't said any of this to anyone before, and some mad part of her wanted to push him, force out all of the old shame and rage right there on that ledge.

"Don't you run away—"

Lucius immediately rounded on her. "You have no idea," he snarled. A long arm whipped up and he pointed at her face. "How could I apologize when you had already turned against me? I am not a masochist. I will not dash myself on the rocks if it would serve no purpose." He dropped his hand and shook his head. "As soon as I emerged from Azkaban I knew you would not hear me out. I came home expecting us to be united in our plight; instead I found I had been abandoned. You left me no choice but to shut you out."

They stood in silence for a few endless moments. Hermione didn't know what to say. She was overwhelmed by the bleakness of the situation into which she'd toppled.

As she groped for some sort of answer, a yellow drake landed on their ledge and crooned low in its swanlike throat. Lucius glanced at it, his mouth a flat line. He reached into his pocket almost mechanically and drew out a small drawstring pouch, from which he pulled a dog treat. The drake crooned again; he tossed the treat over. It snapped it up and licked its scaly chops.

Hermione closed her eyes a long moment. "You really shouldn't feed wild animals."

Lucius clicked his tongue. "One cookie is not going to drive the species to extinction." He gave her a wry look as he tossed another at the beast. "Oh calm your tits, it's a god-damn drake, it's not going to follow us home."

She gave an involuntary laugh. "You are so rude."

"Only occasionally." He clapped loudly, once, and the drake screeched and took off. The sun was sinking and the light around them had gone from auburn to steel blue; night was approaching. Most of the glittering figures had left the precipice. The show was over.

Lucius dusted his hands and started back for the path; Hermione hesitated. "Can't we apparate from here?"

He scoffed. "And what would be the fun in that? I rather enjoyed the hike down."

Hermione glared at him. "I'm not going back up in the dark."

"You may find it less frightening in the dark. The drop would be harder to see."

"So would the path. No, sorry, I won't do it."

He sighed and about-faced. "Very well."

A touch and a turn later, and they were back in Shorecliff. The dining area, by the looks of it. Hermione was momentarily annoyed that they hadn't apparated to their little viewing platform in the first place—but the issue was driven out of her mind when she inhaled a whiff of Harriot's cooking. It seemed the little elf had been very busy: dishes and cutlery had been laid out neatly on the sandy teak tabletop, and Hermione could see steam still wafting off the entrée.

"Ah, perfect timing," Lucius said. As he had back at Malfoy Manor, he drew out Hermione's chair and saw that she was seated before settling in himself. It truly was a twisted world if the most courteous man Hermione had ever met happened to also be one of the vilest—although she was still having a difficult time remembering just how vile he was.

As soon as they were seated, Hermione heard a _pop_ and saw Harriot's long ears appear at Lucius' elbow. She served them quickly and discreetly; Hermione still felt a little uncomfortable, but she supposed since the elf was free, and clearly not being held here against her will, whatever she chose to do with her own time was her prerogative. It was a small reminder of why Hermione had given up working in elven welfare: it had been too much of an uphill battle.

Lucius tucked in as soon as Harriot apparated away again, but Hermione could feel him watching her closely as she ate. The food was delicious enough to detract from her nerves. Harriot had laid out the most orgasmic arrangement of sea foods Hermione had ever tasted in her life; she sampled a little of everything and then some. Jesus, even the bread was incredible. Like baked bliss. And the _wine—_she was halfway through her glass before she noticed the Malfoy crest on the bottle, and realized this must've been one of the famous family vintages. No wonder they were still so prized even after the War had drug the Malfoy name through the mud. Here was by far the finest pinot gris Hermione had ever consumed.

But her ultimate undoing was the ceviche. Christ on a trampoline. She had to exercise some control not to snort it directly. It wouldn't be too weird if she asked Harriot for her recipe, would it?

Lucius' eyes never left her face.

Eventually the silence became uncomfortable to the point of disturbing the meal, and Hermione paused in the middle of her second helping of ceviche (all right, it was her third, but so what? She exercised regularly, she could afford to indulge on occasion).

"I'm sorry," she said, breaking the silence.

Despite all his staring earlier, Lucius suddenly had no interest in meeting her eye. He took another bite of food (he had a taste for the ceviche too), downed a long drought of wine and then said, "That's interesting."

It wasn't the response she'd been expecting. It made her uneasy. "I am."

"I don't doubt it." Lucius wiped his mouth and finally looked up at her. "But what is it you are apologizing for?"

Hermione thought. "For pushing you earlier," she said eventually, then hesitated. "And everything else. I feel as if it's all I can say."

She wasn't even sure what she was referring to anymore. Was she Narcissa, the contrite wife appealing to Lucius' affections by giving in to his wish for reparation? Was she hoping to wheedle her way closer to him and uncover more information about his felonious side-life? Or was she Hermione, apologizing for deceiving him, for putting them both in this decidedly fucked-up situation?

Lucius' eyes wandered to the tapestry of a seagull hanging near the window. (Merlin, this place were full of those, and they were _hideous_.) "I think," he said slowly, "I should like to accept, but not now. In any case I do not want to linger on what happened earlier." He met her eyes levelly for a long moment, during which she struggled not to sneak another bite of food. "As I recall, you enjoy Piotrowski's music. Have you read any of his late wife's fiction?"

Hermione perked up again. "All of them," she said at once, not quite able to keep the maniacal note out of her voice—the one Ron said she got every time she started talking about books. _"Fairness To Return _and _Tired Ramparts _are my favorites, but I never got a copy of her last one. _Gladysburg. _I missed the reading in February."

The memory of it still nauseated her. Belby had asked her to work late, and she'd been stuck in the office that snowy night, wishing that for once in her life she'd chosen leisure over work. She'd regret it tenfold when Emilia Piotrowski died of heart failure two months later. The woman had been as much an artistic genius as her husband, and she had had the same eccentric habit of keeping her work just as small-scale. She'd held readings for each of her new novels as they were completed, and during these she released only a few hundred copies to the public. A fabled few were ever signed. And once they were all sold, getting a copy was damn near impossible. Her readings had become a sort of booklover's convention; whenever a date for one had been announced the Cauldron had been packed for weeks in advance.

Now that Emilia was gone and printing had stopped altogether, her novels had become so scarce that Hermione's own small unsigned collection was now worth a nice sum. Flourish and Blotts had a signed copy of Emilia's last book, _Gladysburg_, on display—never for sale, as they'd told Hermione nearly a dozen times. And no, she was not allowed to touch it. Hermione had gone a little insane staring at it in the window.

"Hmm, that _is_ unfortunate," Lucius said, looking pensive. "I have not been to one of her readings for many years. Not since _Tired Ramparts_, in fact. Actually, that was my least favorite of her novels."

Hermione gaped at him. "How dare you?"

He laughed. "I didn't agree with the message."

"The—are you kidding me? Hers were honest words. It was an honest message."

"I disagree." Lucius lifted a mug of dark tea to his lips. For a moment Hermione didn't understand where it had come from, but then, looking down, she realized Harriot must've cleared the table while she'd been distracted. Now all that sat in front of her was a mug and a mint. She said a silent, heartfelt goodbye to the fifth helping of ceviche she never ate.

"You think she wasn't being honest?" Hermione went on, popping the mint into her mouth. Immediately she felt it dissolve and magically freshen every cell in her body. She shuddered and tried to hide her gagging behind her napkin. Lucius smirked at her.

"I think she was misleading her audience by focusing too much on the wrong topics."

Hermione managed to recover fast enough to nearly cut him off. "The book's about death, Lucius, there aren't any pleasant topics to focus on."

"Of course there are." She gaped at him, and his smile deepened. "Perhaps _pleasant _isn't the word, but I still disagree that Emilia had only bleak material to work with. Judging by the way your jaw has become unhinged, you aren't interested in listening to what I have to say, but try. For me." He paused; their eyes fused. When Hermione said nothing, Lucius continued. "I do not like Emilia's way of painting death as some utterly appalling thing. She spent most of the book waxing eloquent about the horror of it. It was reminiscent to me of the Dark Lord and his rhetoric; those who had subscribed to it viewed death as the epitome of evil, the most terrible thing that could befall a person. I myself was once included in that group. It has taken me many years to understand that death is a sacred thing, and far more complex than that. Like birth, it is vital to life. But also like birth it is one of the most abused and misunderstood concepts. Emilia's is a popular outlook: to understand death in any other manner borders on taboo."

Hermione couldn't help herself. "Does all that make it easier for you to kill people, then?"

He stared at her flatly for so long that she was forced to rupture the silence herself, or risk suffocating in it. "Never mind."

"Never mind, indeed." His voice was a calm sort of livid.

Hermione floundered, quailing under the look he was giving her. "I—look, I understand that death is necessary and all that, but people shouldn't go around thinking it's a positive thing. If you convince yourself it's not all bad, what's stopping you from killing people to get what you want? Or empathize properly with people who have lost someone?"

"Fear of death did not stop Voldemort from killing people to get what he wanted. Nor did it draw out any compassion from him."

She started at the name. She didn't think Lucius would ever dare say it, but he gave no indication that he was even aware of what he'd done. His eyes were scouring holes in her; when he spoke again, his voice was soft. "I was not arguing that death is some sort of party. I was merely disagreeing with Emilia's blind fear of it." He lifted his tea, looking again at that ugly watercolor seagull. Hermione didn't bear the silence very well, weighed down as she was by the subject matter, and almost cried for relief when he changed it. "It's laughably late in the match but I never did mention how beautiful you look today."

Hermione blushed. Butterflies materialized in her stomach. She glanced down—and saw Narcissa's hands on the tablecloth. The butterflies immediately crumpled to ash. Damn her, she'd forgotten she wasn't even in her own body. Lucius hadn't even been talking to her. It was, for the first time, not a relief to remember that he didn't know who she was. Rather, a weight like a dead elephant seemed to collapse in the pit of her gut.

"Thank you," she said, and she sounded strained even to her own ears.

"Not a style you've worn before," he mused, reaching over and running a fingertip along the edge of her sleeve; he made the barest of contact with her skin. Electricity shot up her arm. "Even so… purple has always been your color."

All of the sudden, and with no explanation, she was irritated. "Right."

He noticed the change in her mood. The corner of his mouth curled slyly. "I'd missed your eyes," he went on, and she registered that he was closer now—closing in on her again. "Many things have changed about you, but those have remained the same."

She drew back a little, frowning. She had not the fuzziest clue why she was so pissed all of the sudden, but it only seemed to encourage him. "Still, I must confess," he murmured (she could feel his breath now, cold from the mint, caressing her cheek and the length of her neck; despite herself a little peal of anticipatory pleasure shot through her), "there _is_ one thing you certainly do better now."

She turned to him, finding him even closer than she'd expected. His eyes were all she could see. It felt as if every emotion in her body was being pulled out of her into those eyes—well, almost every emotion… "What?" The word was a breath. She could feel herself beginning to tremble again but she didn't waste any energy hating herself for it this time: she'd had a taste of what he could do, and that alone silenced her reservations. She did acknowledge that she'd probably need therapy after all this was done but she wouldn't bother with logistics now, not while those sinful lips were hovering so close to hers.

He shifted, and she felt his hands on her again, on her cheek, on her neck. He was drawing her in and she didn't once think about resisting. "The way you kiss me," he breathed, and all the hairs on her body rose as if anticipating a lightning strike. His gaze was dropping and she instinctively tilted her head up to meet it. "So… _sincere_." And then his lips touched hers, at long fucking last, and she didn't care about decorum: she sighed like a lovestruck teen being snogged for the first time, and her whole being was reduced to mush.

She realized sharpish that he was trying to frustrate her. When she pushed in to deepen the kiss and send them back to that delirious, heart-pounding place she remembered from earlier, he'd draw back, teasing with a nip of teeth or a flit of tongue; when she buried her hands in his hair and tried to hold him steady he tilted his head up just enough to be noncompliant, laughing a soft, languid laugh. It was both enraging and terribly sexy. She was on the verge of slapping him when suddenly the air compressed around her, and she just had time to figure out they were apparating before she found herself back in the master bedroom, sitting on the foot of the bed where just hours ago she'd cried herself silly. Now she was in Lucius Malfoy's lap, locked in the shackles of his arms, and sorrow was the farthest thing from her mind.

She was forgetting herself in the feel of him, the delicious smell that mingled tantalizingly with the aroma of pea-and-peonies from their bath earlier; Narcissa's body moved of its own accord and pressed as close to him as humanly possible. It brought her thigh in direct contact with his groin, which stirred against her and sent a shot of pure, heady lust right to her center. There was no messing about with peeling off clothes this time; Lucius seemed to think enough slow undressing had been done that day. She felt him withdraw his wand, and a second later she gave a little shocked gasp as all the barriers between them vanished. Now every searing inch of him was ironed against her and she didn't think she could rip away from him even if she tried.

It was insane, really. There she was again, for the second time that day, hiding in Narcissa's body and pressed up against a very nude Lucius Malfoy, snogging him with a desperate abandon that hadn't even existed in her life until this point. She wasn't nearly as coy as before. Her hands went everywhere, all over him, one moment gripping his lovely arse and the next massaging over the steel length of his manhood. She watched his hands now, and whenever one strayed near his member she shoved it away. There would be no wanking off at random this time. He noticed the difference in her demeanor; she felt him smiling against her lips as he gamely returned every stroke of her hand with one of his own. His fingers made lazy circles around her areolas, darting in to flick or tweak or pinch as he saw fit; in no time at all he had her nipples upright and aching. He didn't move a hand between her legs, though. Hermione was prepared to let that slide for a few more minutes, but if he didn't get around to touching her soon she was fairly certain she'd burst into flame and roam the countryside as a horny fire demon the rest of her life.

Merlin she loved the noises he made. Deep growls and soft, low exclamations that vibrated under her skin. In just a few moments, the both of them were wound up past the point of no return. The thought didn't scare her nearly as much as it should have.

She was reminded again how mercurial he could be when he suddenly gripped her hard and threw her down in the center of the bed. She yelped in shock; that little edge of fear was back, ramping her awareness up to cocaine-level clarity. He slid over the bed towards her, trailing his mouth up her body, biting and kissing at random. Every touch branded her, shot fire right down to her bones; he slid past her sex without so much as glancing at it, up over her navel, between the peaks of her breasts, right up to the hollow of her throat, which jumped in time to her drumming pulse.

Then he did something she hadn't anticipated. He groped around for his wand, found it lying discarded on the mattress nearby and flicked it a second time. The canopy above them rustled and parted. Hermione gawked. Set into the ceiling above the bed was a huge, circular mirror; in it, she saw Lucius and Narcissa entwined on the teal duvet like sirens twisting in the sea. Lucius took her wrists and pinned them above her head; she felt suddenly vulnerable, terrified; her eyes locked onto Narcissa's in the mirror and an upsurge of panic made her struggle. But Lucius subdued her by layering the solid expanse of his body over hers and claiming her lips with his own again, and she lost track of who, and where, she was.

He was heavy on her, and she felt his cock jerking against her skin like some living thing trapped between their bodies. Her sex clenched in response and a moan escaped her throat and into the charged bedroom air. He shifted, pulsed again, she clasped, and her breath hitched, and her head swam, and she realized there was no way in heaven nor hell that she would leave this bedroom the same person.

Fuck.

But oh—there—he was _there_. She stilled when she felt the silky head press at her entrance. The softest touch, hardly real, yet Narcissa's body reacted as if he'd lashed her with a live wire. Her legs slid up a little, reflexively, falling just slightly to the sides, and that agonizing point of contact between them became the center of the universe.

Unwillingly she looked at the mirror again, at the debauched bodies lying poised before the race. A scene in which Hermione Granger had absolutely no part. She focused on the hard lines of muscle in Lucius' back, shifting and flexing as he spared her some of his weight; her eyes slid down just as he flexed the muscles in his rear and nudged her, nearly pushing inside her and _oh god it had been so fucking close_—she slammed her eyes shut and imagined something different, a desperate pretend scene wherein Lucius was actually poised above _her_ and not Narcissa; she gasped as the image flashed in her head, of her own body and her own self pinned down beneath him; her back arched and she drew her legs around his hips, trying with all her might to pull him in, but he resisted.

Lucius' hands withdrew from her wrists. When she tried to move them, she found she was somehow still restrained. She opened her eyes again and saw that he must've cast a nonverbal spell, as she was now pinned down to the bed by thin black ties around her wrists and ankles.

"You _are_ an intoxicating little thing," Lucius purred. He slid off her, drawing back onto his haunches, looking down at her with an expression that immediately turned her boiling blood to ice. "But so outrageously incautious." He flicked his wand again, and a small glass phial, about the size of her little finger, appeared spinning in the air at his temple. He caught it and examined its contents. "The one thing Narcissa hates more than Clements Piotrowski is ceviche." He looked into her eyes, and Hermione had the sensation of falling into a bottomless pit. "We honeymooned in Lucerne. Had I brought Narcissa to this place for the weekend, I imagine she would be quite distressed. There is a different significance to this house in our marriage, you see." She felt the tip of his wand trace a soft line from the juttering pulse-point on her neck down to about an inch below her navel, where her heart had sunk and settled in a quivering mass. "So who, then, are you?"

* * *

**A/N****: I have no idea about you guys but I'm having a fucking blast. What is Lucius gonna do to her? Does he really not know who she is? What do you all think? **

**Thank you so much for your feedback so far, oh my god it's amazing to read, really inspiring. Some details will make more sense later on, but tell me—are my chapters getting too long? Reviews keep this naïve young dream alive!**


	10. Chapter 10

Hermione couldn't breathe. The room was airless, frozen, so cold she felt goosebumps rising on her skin. Her breath hitched when Lucius raised his wand again, but he only flicked it and reclothed them. Well, reclothed himself, anyway. Hermione's dress didn't reappear: instead she found herself in an unfamiliar, knee-length pink nightgown and knickers. The tiny fragment of her mind that was still coherent found itself surprised at his deference here, now, in this situation—though obviously he'd chosen the nightgown to keep her feeling vulnerable. As if she didn't feel vulnerable enough tied down to the bed beneath him.

She didn't want to look at him. She didn't want to be alive just then. She kept her eyes on the wall and did her best to bear the hot, sticky shame currently filling her up from toes to crown; her eyes stung but she fought the tears. It was obvious Lucius was waiting for her to say something, and if she'd learned anything about him—and she seriously doubted now that she actually had—he was perfectly comfortable sitting in silence until she broke.

And break she finally did. Her voice came out thick and cracked. "How long did you know?"

"After you left the first day," he said conversationally. "I will confess that I was initially taken by your ruse, not because you were at all good at impersonating Narcissa, but because I believed that surely it was impossible that _anyone_ would try something so remarkably stupid." He paused. "I will also admit to indulging in a little wishful thinking. Perhaps Narcissa _had_ actually returned, but had changed so much that I no longer recognized her?" Those cold eyes narrowed. "Goodness, you now have such terrible blackmail material on me! Who would have thought that I was a human being, in possession of _feelings_, with the capacity to want for human contact, and yes, that I'm the sort of man to miss my ex-wife and wish her back badly enough that I was willing to go against my better judgment and show deference to an imposter. I have been caught out. Congratulations."

His words were hard ice and Hermione found herself choking back rattling sobs. He paused a moment, seemingly to reign in his anger, then went on.

"After you left, I found both Belgium and Fairway had been Confounded, and Francis informed me that you took quite a long time to locate the bedroom that had once been yours for several decades; he was, and is, concerned that you may have a brain injury. I also discovered that the hairbrush out of Narcissa's old vanity was gone. Rather a useful item, if one were brewing Polyjuice."

Hermione swallowed hard. She groped around for something to say, but the first words she heard herself speak surprised even her. "Ex-wife?"

Apparently he hadn't been expecting that, either. His eyebrows quirked up a little, but he remained silent, looking at her as if he couldn't quite believe anyone could be such an idiot.

Hermione swallowed again; tears slipped out of the corners of her eyes. It really made no difference, Lucius' marital status, but somehow the knowledge that he and Narcissa were well and truly divorced had a distinct, and totally insane, impact on her: she felt a small sense of relief. Well, she'd done everything completely wrong and was still a fucked up person, fundamentally, but at least she hadn't fooled around with a married man. What a _wonderful_ saving grace. The courts would _definitely_ take it into account when they tallied up the number of years she'd spend in Azkaban for this.

Lucius was still staring at her. It didn't seem wise to let him dwell on her stupidity; she decided that if she could keep him talking, she'd bide herself enough time to think up a plan to escape this with her life.

"You didn't seem to know I wasn't her when I showed up at your house the second time," she forced out. "You even asked a security question. Why did you play along?"

He smiled softly at her. "Why not? I was curious. I wanted to see if I could guess who you were and what you wanted—and in order to do that, I had to make you feel comfortable in your camouflage. Comfortable enough to slip me tidbits of information. So I played a little game of pretend, and you certainly _did _get comfortable." His eyes slipped down Narcissa's body, just for a second, but it was enough to make Hermione's humiliation skyrocket. She writhed, trying to get out of her confines, though she had no idea what she'd do if she actually got a hand loose: Lucius was sitting across her hips, a solid mass of muscle pinning her to the mattress, and his wand was already drawn. She was finished.

And when he leaned over, put a hand on her throat and pushed her down, hard, into the duvet, all escape attempts ceased immediately.

He went on, his face much closer to hers than before. His pale eyes were mesmerizing; she couldn't decide what she saw in them. His voice was still so soft, almost a caress, terrifyingly calm. A part of her knew he was relishing this, enjoying his power over her, and that part of her quivered with a barrage of confusing emotions.

"Anyway," he purred, "it was worth it to watch your impression of Narcissa. Hilarious. Piotrowski! She hates him nearly as much as she loves his wife's books—of which, by the way, _Tired Ramparts_ is her favorite. She only abided Clements' concerts in the hopes she'd glimpse Emilia and persuade her to sign one. She loved Emilia even more than Austen. Clever guess, by the way, but incorrect insofar as I know. Still, it had me thinking for a while that you might actually be acquainted with Narcissa. I can now be certain you probably have never even spoken to her, which invalidates the possibility of you being one of her friends playing games with me. That leaves us two likely options." He twirled the vial between his fingers; its blue contents formed a tiny vortex. "You are either working for my manufacturers, or you are some self-righteous rogue from the Ministry."

Another wave of tears sprang free, running hot over her temples, but Hermione kept decent control over her voice. "You don't know who I am?"

"No," he drawled, his eyes following the droplets now soaking into Narcissa's fair hairline. "Not specifically. But let me see if I might narrow it down." He smiled indulgently at her, and she coughed out a sad whimper. "You are definitely a woman."

"What makes you so sure?" she dared, still trying to keep him talking, still trying to find some way, _any_ way, out of this hole she'd dug so very deeply around herself.

"I suppose you could be a man," he mused, "but I don't think so. You don't kiss like one."

"Wait—what?" she said, distracted for a moment. "You know how men kiss?"

"Yes," he said simply. "So, you are a woman. But from which institution? I don't believe you're with my colleagues, they would not have bothered asking about my work. I do believe, however, that that would be the obligation of a Ministry official." He smirked a little. "A Ministry official that allowed herself to get far too carried away with her vigilantism. I'm guessing you are also quite young. Mid-twenties, perhaps? Young enough to believe you are above the authority of the legal system, and to have absolutely no knowledge of the dynamics of mature marriages. I get the feeling that catfishing me is the first, truly awful thing you have done in your life—you are, of course, acquainted with the beloved Aery Derry?"

_Only too well._ Hermione bit her lip to keep it from trembling. She was caught, permanently trapped, just like Derry and the catfish. Lucius tutted at her. "Shame you didn't learn from his mistakes. I'm guessing you had full confidence that you would never be discovered: you broke so easily there. No back-and-forth at all. My, my, but this is quite a bad day for you…"

Hermione choked out a little sob. "I—I didn't—you should be in prison. You confessed you were involved in the Dark market."

"Even if it were true, it is information that you cannot use against me, considering both the illegal methods you used to obtain it, as well as your current position—pinned underneath me with little chance of leaving this house unless I give my consent. I assume you haven't worked out the address to this place, let alone sent it off to any potential rescuers. So liberation by an outside source seems rather slim on the ground for you—that is, if you've even told anyone you were planning to meet me today?"

The look on her face was sufficient enough answer. Lucius _tsk_ed. "You really shouldn't brave strange waters alone." He smiled ironically. "So, here we have a young Ministry official of the female persuasion, a lover of books and music but not, I take it, of Quidditch? I don't think you were bluffing earlier." He raised his eyebrows at her, but when she gave no conformation his smile only deepened. "All of this is hardly something from which I could draw a name. Let us find out for certain, shall we?" He showed her the bottle. "I am going to give this to you. It's a corrective for Polyjuice. Once you have transformed back, we will have a discussion about what happens to you next."

_"No!" _Hermione struggled harder against the binds, twisted and tried to throw him off her. She couldn't let him figure out who she was. Nobody, not a single human being on this good green planet could _ever_ know about this. Ever. But Lucius was unmoved, a stoic statue, the hard pillars of his thighs locking her in place.

"No?" Lucius drawled, quirking his eyebrows and making a show of thinking it over. "I suppose that is somewhat understandable. The antidote is supposed to be remarkably painful, rather more so than Polyjuice itself. Perhaps you would want to lie there and wait for it to wear off on its own? I only thought you'd want to get this over with as quickly as possible."

Awash in tears, Hermione could no longer make out his expression; everything was a colored blob with runny edges. "Just—just let me go. Please. I'll never bother you again, you won't ever hear from me for as long as I live."

"I won't ever know whether or not I hear from you again, if I let you go now," Lucius responded. "You could stroll up to me tomorrow and I'd be completely unaware. And I hardly think that's fair. _I'm_ the wronged one in this situation, why should I let you off with a warning?" His voice hardened again. "I doubt you would have let _me _off, had you found solid evidence of any transgressions."

"But I did!" she wailed nonsensically. "I _know _you're involve in the Dark market! You—you knew about the dragon eggs and the Doxie Dust! You knew those were being traded more than anything!"

"Anyone who purchases a newspaper could figure that out," he said shortly. "There's two or three Doxie overdoses a day—and that instance last week? A dozen dragon hatchlings confiscated from that old warlock's bathroom in Exeter? Come now. _Everyone_ knows about those chinks in the Ministry's armor."

Hermione rolled her head back, away from him, choking on her own tears. The sobs were coming freely now, because he was right. She hadn't even gathered enough evidence to convince _anyone_ of his involvement. It had all been for nothing.

Lucius was watching her fall apart with an interesting look on his face. Not that she could see it, with her eyes now as tightly shut as she could screw them. Eventually she heard him scoff and the substantial weight resting on her hips was lifted. She blinked her eyes open again and saw him standing at the foot of the bed, hands clasped behind his back, gazing up at the large mirror above her.

"I did so want to fuck Narcissa here," he murmured, and she noticed that he looked coldly angry. Under the fury in his eyes Hermione thought she could see pain. It made her soul wither a little. "I wanted to fuck her _hard_, and I wanted you to watch us. I wanted to make you—the both of you—scream my name. I was so terribly close to following through, and my _god_ you were as well. It would have been good." A flicker of something else, something Hermione recognized as lust, darted across his face. For a second she felt herself squirm a little, and not in fear. "I hadn't anticipated being so taken by this. Of course, there would have been no way that you could have mimicked Narcissa perfectly enough to fool me, and I thought that I would be more amused than anything at your attempts." He smiled again, though the anger hadn't vanished. "Poor judgment on my part. I knew you were not Narcissa, but yet I was still pleasuring _her _body. And the way you moved, the _sounds _you made… I confess, I got a little carried away before I remembered that what we are doing is exceptionally cruel to her. _You_ may be dying to have me, but she is not. Otherwise she would have come back long ago and fucked me herself."

His eyes flicked down at Hermione. "I'm feeling mawkish," he sighed. "I don't particularly want to stand here and watch my former life partner morph into someone else." His lip curled a little. "Possibly someone hideous, in which case I'd prefer not to make the association. So I'll leave you here to think about what you've done, and in a few hours we'll convene again and… chat, about all this. I have a proposition for you that you will definitely want to hear."

Hermione was fairly certain she didn't want to hear him say anything to her ever again, but she was thankful that he was at least leaving her alone for a while: she couldn't remember the last time she'd had to sit through this level of verbal torture and was already exhausted and sweat-slicked. Polyjuice antidote was indeed painful to take, and the fact that he wasn't forcing it on her was… well, shocking. She hadn't dared hope for that level of mercy.

When he turned and swept out the door without another word, she felt Narcissa's whole body wilt with relief. But it didn't last long. She'd topped off on Polyjuice a few hours ago; she was certain she'd be good for a few hours more, but unless she could get a hold of her wand or escape these binds, a whole month's worth of Polyjuice wouldn't do her any good.

Twenty minutes of struggling only left her frustrated and raw on her wrists and ankles. The binds, she discovered, tightened when she pulled them. She tried biting through them, but that did about as much good as biting on steel chains. Half an hour later, and she was almost to the point of chewing off her own hand. They had spells to regrow limbs, after all—she could go without hers for awhile. It would be less painful than Lucius Malfoy discovering her identity.

She went as far as to test-bite herself once before she canned that bright idea. A long stretch of time passed, she wasn't sure about the specifics; she struggled herself to exhaustion every ten minutes or so. Things got a little fuzzy and she might've passed out at some point, it was difficult to say. All she knew was that at one point her eyes snapped open and she was staring at Narcissa in the ceiling mirror, only Narcissa's hair was rapidly getting darker and curlier.

Oh shit. The Polyjuice was wearing off.

In the overwhelming panic that took hold in the next few seconds, an idea struck her. She screamed, "Francis!" and then, when there was no response, "Harriot!" Still no response. Not entirely unexpected. She mentally steeled herself before playing her last card. "Fergus!"

There was a _snap_ and Fergus appeared at her bedside; his back was to her, but he turned around as soon as he appeared and regarded her in that haughty, un-Elfish way of his. He did not look at all surprised to see her strapped to the bed with tears in her eyes, sporting an entirely new hairdo and a faint patch of rapidly blooming freckles across her nose. And that was deeply disturbing.

"Fergus," she breathed. "Please—help me. Lucius has gone insane. Please untie me!"

Fergus raised an eyebrow. "It doesn't look as though I ought to be butting into this situation, Mrs. Malfoy." He tilted his head. "Have you forgotten your safe-word?"

Hermione stifled a sob. "No, no, this isn't—Lucius has been gone for hours, he's left me here! Please let me go, I've been tied down here all night!"

The elf was unfazed. "Yes, from what I've had to witness before, these things can last that long." His eyes tracked the progress of her hair, which was now so massive that Hermione could almost call it her own again. "I never knew you dyed and straightened your hair."

"I—" It struck Hermione then that Fergus was being sarcastic. He must've known what was going on. No point in beating around the bush, she supposed. "Okay, Fergus, all right, I'm not Narcissa, I've been using Polyjuice, but please help me, I can't be found like this, Malfoy is going to come back and kill me—"

"I believe he said he had a proposition for you," Fergus corrected. "And he did not look the least bit murderous when I brought him his nightcap and beat him at chess earlier."

At this point Hermione's body was completely her own again under the nightdress, and Narcissa's face had begun to change in earnest; a few more seconds, and the last bit of her disguise was wicked away. Hermione Granger looked down at herself from the mirror with an expression appropriate to witnessing Voldemort rise again.

At last, Fergus revealed the tiniest ounce of shock. "Well, well, well," he said, padding up to the side of the bed and gazing at her with his little mouth hanging open, "_Hermione Granger_. You were the very last person I would have ever suspected. Honestly. I put money on Lucius' old secretary." He slicked back his ears, thoughtful. "I suppose it isn't technically a loss, since I don't have any money, but still, the _principle…"_

"Fergus!" Hermione gasped out; she was sobbing wholeheartedly, her crime now witnessed, her humiliation complete. "Please, _please_ help me—I've—I've dedicated my life to helping house-elves, I've devoted years to improving your standing in society, I can't be brought down like this, all of the work I've done for you will get buried under this scandal! Please, you can't let that happen!"

It was a long shot, considering Francis' and Harriot's earlier sentiments about SEX, but Hermione figured there'd be little she could lose in trying.

Fergus was looking at her steadily. He looked at her for so long that she turned away from him, giving him up as a lost cause, burying her face in a nearby pillow and crying hear heart out. Her career was over. Lucius would take this to the press, and everyone would know her shame. Her friends would shun her. There'd be a criminal trial and she'd likely do jail time. Perhaps her war heroine status might fetch her a lighter sentence, and she'd only have to do community service. Hermione Jane Granger, picking up garbage at the roadside in a striped jumpsuit…

She paused in her wailing only to rub her knuckles into her eyes—and realized then that her hand was no longer bound. She sat bolt upright and looked down at herself. The black ties were gone, and Fergus was standing there in the center of the room, twirling her wand between his long fingers. He tossed it to her, and she was so shocked that her grab for it was a second too late; it struck her in the face and tumbled into her lap.

"You won't be able to apparate here," he said, extending a hand, "but I can take you. Just give me an address."

Hermione snatched up her wand, scrambled off the bed and dove for his hand, clutching it so hard that he winced a little. She managed to yammer out the address of her favorite café in wizarding London; even in her state of high terror she didn't want to chance Lucius figuring out exactly where she lived.

Fergus snapped, and Hermione swore the pressure of apparation had never felt sweeter.

* * *

They made a bit of a scene when Hermione appeared on a tabletop right in the middle of the café wearing nothing but her tiny pink nightgown and clutching at a house-elf like a little girl clinging to her teddy. Thank god there were only a few people around, most of them employees: dawn was breaking softly in the east but all the street-lamps were still glowing outside. Hermione supposed she shouldn't have chosen an all-night place but it was the first she could think of under all that pressure.

Fergus wriggled and made an angry noise in the back of his throat, and she immediately put him down and jumped off the table.

"Oh my god, Fergus, thank you," Hermione gasped, reaching out for him again and pulling him into a crushing hug. She cried a little on his shoulder—it was mostly out of relief but she drew back when she heard his disapproving sniff.

He glared at her and started daubing the little wet patch on the shoulder of his gold pillowcase with a napkin. "I don't know if you understand the predica—"

"What's going on here?" A barista had appeared, looking between Hermione and Fergus with a bewildered expression on her face. "Hermione Granger? Is that you?"

Hermione went brilliant red. "I—we—sorry, we got a little disoriented," she said, and then quickly added to Fergus, "I've got to go. I really can't express how grateful I am. Thank you so much."

Hermione apparated a second time, but not before she caught Fergus' forbidding expression, saw him grab for her and miss. While floating in the crushing darkness she felt a little pang of guilt, but she couldn't have stayed in the café for a protracted conversation and made an even bigger scene: Lucius would soon discover the elf's treason and would come looking for them, and the less he knew about her whereabouts, the better.

It was a little sad that she probably couldn't show her face in that café again. They had delicious lattes. But she supposed it was a small price to pay to maintain some anonymity.

She rematerialized in the middle of her own living room, and immediately fell down on the carpet and cried until she was too exhausted to cry anymore. Crookshanks came tottering over on his unsteady old-man legs and rubbed against her head as she let it all out; she didn't even mind when he farted on her and walked away again. She was so relieved to be out of Shorecliff and back in her own apartment. For a while there it hadn't looked as if she'd ever see it again.

She thought about just passing out right there on the floor, but her sense of propriety, somehow undamaged by the events of the last few days, wouldn't allow it. She pulled her leaden body up and staggered into the kitchen, grabbing things at random, trying to make her brain remember how to brew the herbal tea she drank whenever she was struggling to put herself to sleep. She'd throw off the nightgown and knickers, probably take a shower, and go to bed naked tonight; she didn't want any reminders of the past twenty-four hours on her. She prayed to god that she'd be able to sleep for longer than just a few hours. The longer she could avoid thinking about what happened, the better off she'd be.

She'd just filled the kettle when she heard the crack of apparation in her living room.

Without pausing to think, she dove at the nearest cabinet and crawled inside; a large, precariously piled heap of crockery crashed down around her, but she got the door closed before any of it could spill onto the linoleum. Wand in hand, she crouched there in the dark, straining her ears for the tiniest sound in the next room.

She didn't have to wait long. In a few seconds her cabinet door was flung open again, and she rolled out, waving her wand and screaming, _"Petrificus totalus!" _while the pots and pans thundered around her.

To her alarm, the spell immediately took effect—on _her_. The intruder must've repelled it, but if he had, that had been the quickest nonverbal spellwork she'd ever seen. She hit the floor, frozen mid-jump, her wand still aloft. There was an explosion of hysterical laughter behind her.

_"Oh my god,"_ Fergus gasped between fits. Despite his humanized voice, his laugh was still quite squeaky. _"You're such a card!"_

Hermione felt a twang of embarrassment. "Fergus! How did you find me?"

"Elves have a special knack for finding things that are lost," he said. She heard him sniff and wipe his eyes, still chuckling weakly. "I've got to say, it was very rude of you to leave me there, but _this_—this has made up for it. I forgive you."

"How'd you do that _Protego _so fast?"

Fergus lost it again. It was awhile before he could get the words out. "You've got a ladle caught on your wand-tip," he coughed, pointing. "It must have deflected your spell right back at your hand."

Hermione's eyes darted up. Oh. He was right. She felt a new wave of embarrassment coming on, but at this point, in the safety of her own home, she managed to whip up a little defensive anger too. "Well, I was frightened, all right! Now could you please unfreeze me?"

Fergus snorted. "Not if you're going to apparate away again. You and I have things to talk about and I can't have you swimming off again before we're sorted, little catfish."

Hermione clicked her tongue impatiently. "Where would I go? This is my home. I can't go wandering the streets in a nightgown, you saw the way those people in the café looked at me!"

"Give me your word that you won't try to escape, and I'll unfreeze you."

_"Fine._ I give you my word. Now let me up!"

Hermione felt her muscles relax and pushed herself into a sitting position. Fergus padded up to her, reached out, and rapped his knuckles smartly on the top of her head. A metallic _clang _sounded.

"Is this what the kids are wearing nowadays?" he said, smirking. "Saucepans for hats?"

Hermione yanked the crockery off her head, blushing angrily, but Fergus wasn't paying much attention anymore; he was gazing around her kitchen now with a look of distinct disgust on his face. "My god, do you ever clean this place?"

"I don't really—" Hermione couldn't get the words out before the elf went bustling around, tidying the mess of cookware she'd scattered, reorganizing the cabinet she'd fallen out of, putting on the tea she'd tried to make and, for good measure, waving a finger and setting her underused broom to sweeping on its own. He got the dishes started too, and seemed to have to restrain himself from wiping down her counters. The sight of her minimally cluttered and dusty living space seemed to pain him.

While she was still spluttering he took the hem of her nightgown, apparated them back into the living room, pushed her down onto the couch then sat across from her in the loveseat. Even though the furniture dwarfed him he still somehow managed to look grave and intimidating, like a wizened little judge holding court on his bench.

Hermione found her words. "Are you going to tell Malfoy where I am?"

Fergus made an impatient noise. "Would I have bothered to rescue you if I was going to do so?" He bent his eyes on her in a manner reminiscent of Lucius; Hermione had little doubt now that the elf must've had something to do with the man's upbringing. "You're a very lucky woman. My relationship with the Malfoy family is not typical among elves; my contract is possibly unique. No other elf would have been able to do what I did today. It was clearly an act against my master's wishes." He steepled his long fingers. "I therefore think you owe me an explanation of your behavior."

"I was impersonating Narcissa to see if Malfoy's been spearheading the illegal trade of Dark artifacts," Hermione said without hesitation. "I was just going to wait for him to drop a name or an address I could look up later, but then all the… other stuff started happening." She flushed at Fergus' knowing smile and changed the subject. "Why were you able to rescue me today?" She thought of Dobby. "The only other elf I'd met of the Malfoys' aside from Francis and Harriot wasn't able to act against their wishes without punishing himself."

Fergus balked a little but he gave her a prompt response. "Some centuries ago, when the Malfoy empire hit a high in its status and grandeur, Nicodemus Malfoy, the patriarch at the time, took me aside for a private chat. Now that the Malfoys had attained true greatness, he said it was tantamount that we retained our power through the centuries by removing as much outside influence as possible, to reduce the chances of breeding blood-traitors, progressivists, or any other such riffraff in the family line. He thought that having a steady… keeper of the house, as he called it, would benefit the family enormously. But he needed someone that could be trusted implicitly, who could also withstand the wear and tear of time. And who more suitable than an elf, unable to disobey even if he wanted to?

"He gave me several orders that he instructed me to follow even after his passing. He told me that I was to become the head servant and maintain the other elves and properties, so that they didn't fall into disrepair or dishonor; educate myself to act as a tutor of the Malfoy scions, to avoid a constant parade of teachers through the generations that may potentially poison their minds; and most importantly, I was not allowed to die unless instructed otherwise. I would also be a warden of the family history and genealogy, the details of which I should only divulge to the patriarch should he ask. Such things are kept close in pureblood society."

He scratched his chin. "Being head-elf resulted in my forming personal relationships with all the Malfoy scions. Over the years I've learned, and taught, healing, finance, dueling, basket weaving, hunting, flag semaphore, hairstyling and how to play just about every instrument known to mankind." He smiled grimly. "But I have Aristide Malfoy to thank for the most important of my abilities. Aristide and I were quite close, and until Lucius, he was my favorite. He always had some difficulty with social interaction, but I could understand him, after a fashion. He died quite young, but his last request of me—that I should never fear the family, and that I must never harm myself and that I must even defend myself against my masters, should it come to it—has lent me a considerable amount of freedom. His successor, Hadrian, made the suggestion that I should also speak my mind without fear of retribution. I soon grew into the role of an unofficial, off-the-records adviser. I am allowed to say whatever I want and to protect myself should I need to. That's why, at this very moment, even though I can hear Lucius calling for me, I am allowed to ignore him because it falls under the context of 'self-defense.' There have been _years_ when I have had to lay low and avoid the patriarch because I have said or done something… off-color."

He cocked his head at the calendar hanging on her wall near the clock. This month's picture was a pink kneazle. "I imagine this will have to be one of those quiet spells." He sighed. "It really is too bad. I love Lucius and I'm rather upset our relationship had to take this turn."

Hermione gawped at the elf. Her head swum with all the information. "Wow," she said at last. "You—er—look pretty good for being a few centuries old."

He flashed a coy grin. "Every once in a while I get an order to be young again, so I am."

"That's incredible! I've worked with elves for _years _and I've never met one even remotely like you!" She frowned. "Is that why you rescued me, because of the Society for Elfish Exoneration? Francis and Harriot weren't fans."

Fergus sniffed. "Nor am I. But I didn't rescue you because I appreciated your _SEX _group, although I won't complain too loudly: I've learned to speak like a human now, and I've seen a remarkable improvement in how the family treats me because of it, Draco in particular. No, I saved you to in turn ask a favor. Now that you're in my debt, I imagine you'll be more than happy to humor an old elf."

Hermione blinked. And then burst out laughing. "No wonder all the Malfoys have ended up in Slytherin. With a nanny like you it's a shock there's any variation at all between generations."

"That was the point, I believe."

"What's the favor?"

He grew serious. "Some years ago, you were brought to the manse against your will. You were tortured there. I'm sure you remember."

Hermione froze. "Yes, I remember that."

"You were rescued by an elf. One that used to belong to the Malfoy family."

"Yes. Dobby."

His eyebrows pursed. "So far as I am aware, you and your companions were the last to hear from Dobby. I want you to take me to him."

Hermione's heart sank like a two-ton rock. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry, Fergus. Dobby—he died that same night we escaped."

Fergus stared at her for a long moment. "What happened?"

"Bellatrix killed him. She threw a knife, and it—it got him," Hermione said lamely. "Harry dug a grave. We had a small ceremony."

Fergus grew still. After another long moment, he drew himself up. "Damn that woman," he murmured. "Well, my request still stands. Take me to the place where he was buried."

* * *

Fergus had wanted to set out for the grave immediately, and it was only after a protracted argument that he allowed Hermione to shower and dress. She could hear him crashing around her flat while she scrubbed off at top-speed; when she darted back across the hall to her room in a towel, she caught a glimpse of him carrying her sofa cushions into the kitchen.

Disturbed, she raced through her routine and came out just in time to find her whole apartment looking better than she'd ever seen it. She wandered around, openmouthed, until she stumbled across the elf sitting cross-legged beside her coffee table drinking tea and glancing impatiently at his fancy watch. Crookshanks was sulking in the window looking as if he'd been the unwilling recipient of a few cleansing charms.

"Fergus," she breathed, "this place… you _really_ didn't have to—"

"I certainly did not," he cut her off. "Are you done? I'm eager to be off."

Hermione started. "Right." He put down his tea and waved a hand at the cup; it vanished. Then he offered a hand to her.

* * *

Hermione didn't bother knocking on Bill and Fleur's front door. It was about 6 o'clock in the morning and the whole family would probably still be sleeping, and anyway, she didn't want to have to explain the solemn old elf at her ankle, nor why she was leading him to Dobby's grave at this ungodly hour. It wouldn't do any harm if she just snuck him in for a quick… whatever it was he was going to do. Then she'd just hurry him out again and nobody would be any the wiser.

Hermione wasn't sure when she'd become such a sketchy person, but she made a mental note to stop while she was ahead.

Over the years the wind off the sea had smoothed over the mound of Dobby's grave. It was perfectly flat now, only distinguishable by the headstone and the small number of tributes piled around it.

Hermione's most recent visit to the site had been nearly six months ago. She'd left a small bouquet of Everblooming Daisies with a short thank-you note tucked into the vase. The site wasn't loaded with candles or small gifts like the memorial of Hogwarts in Diagon Park, but it was still a hollowed place, especially for Harry. Unlike the name suggested, Hermione's daisies had wilted long ago, along with all of the other flowers around the stone. She felt suddenly ashamed that she'd let the grave go to seed.

Fergus walked slowly up to it. Feeling as if she were intruding upon something private, Hermione tried to remove herself from the situation by paying far too much attention to a nearby shrub, but she'd barely turned her back on the scene when Fergus was at her elbow again, tugging on her coat and asking to leave.

* * *

The arrival back at her flat couldn't have been more uncomfortable. Hermione wasn't sure what to say. Fergus was looking coolly unaffected, as if all they'd done was take a quick trip to the corner store; the instant they appeared back in her living room he bustled off to the kitchen and began brewing them each a cup of coffee.

"It's morning now," he announced, handing Hermione a mug without prompting. "The sun will rise soon. We might as well stay up. We've got to set up a few protective wards around this place; Lucius has stopped calling for me and I believe he's figured out what's happened. The only reason it's taken him this long is because if my hitherto-unwavering loyalty." Fergus grimaced a little. "He is not going to be happy."

Hermione looked at him pityingly. "I really do appreciate everything you've done," she said, wishing to Merlin the words didn't sound so overused. "What are you going to do now?"

Fergus raised an eyebrow. "I've just told you," he said impatiently, "we're going to make this place a fortress. Lucius is a very talented wizard, whatever you think of him, and I don't doubt that he'll be able to determine who you are using the information you've let slip already. And once he does, he _will_ come looking for you."

Hermione's palms began to sweat. "Okay," she said, "but then what do I do now? I still have to go to work on Monday, and I still have to figure out whether or not Malfoy's involved with—" She stopped. "Wait. You would know if Lucius is working in the illegal substance trade, wouldn't you? You could give testimony!"

Fergus gave her a very cold look. "Despite what you may have witnessed tonight, I am not a bad elf, Hermione Granger," he said, raising a threatening finger. "It is a deeply insulting thing you are insinuating. I will not speak out against him on any sort of trumped-up charges you've created. How dare you even suggest it?" He drew himself up, smoothing down the front of his pillowcase. "No, this is what's going to happen. I'm going to remain here in this dreadful little space a few days, to be sure my efforts were not wasted and your anonymity is preserved. Then I'm going to return to the manor and keep my head down, keep everything running smoothly without showing my face, until Lucius needs me again. He will. It may be years, but he'll come around. And if he does not," Fergus grimaced, "Draco will. Or his son, or the son thereafter. And once I am back in their good graces, everything will be as it was. As it has always been."

Hermione scowled. "Well, then, that's just great. Never mind that lives are being lost and our Statute of Secrecy is being jeopardized because of the Dark market, and all of it could be prevented if we disbanded it." Then she let out a pitiful sigh. "I can't _believe_ I went through all that for nothing."

Fergus raised an eyebrow. "You didn't seriously think your little plan would work, did you?" He grew solemn. "On an unrelated note, I'd be very cautious about returning to work, if I were you."

"What? You're not suggesting I _play hookie_ or—"

Fergus scoffed. "No, that would be a good way of drawing unwanted attention to yourself. Act as if nothing has happened, but be careful while you do it. I pulled you out of the lion's den once, but I'm not willing to do it again. There's only so much damage I can do per decade before my reputation goes completely to the dogs." He raised his finger again, looking severe. "Mark my words, Lucius _will _eventually find out who you are, and I don't think he'll be so kind to you when you're under his control again."

* * *

**A/N****: Soooo sorry for this incredibly late update. December was a very hard month for me :c Even though this isn't as severe a cliffhanger, would it titillate you to know that Lucius doesn't stay gone for very long at all? c; **

**_Please drop me a line!_****It helps with the creative juices.**


	11. Chapter 11

Hermione would've liked to say she'd spent all Sunday helping fortify her apartment, but really she'd spent most it keeping herself and Crookshanks away from Fergus. In the beginning she'd wanted to chat with him, find out more about him and Dobby, maybe even bond a little. It rapidly became apparent that the feeling wasn't mutual.

It didn't take long for Fergus to really come out of his shell, and as soon as he did, Hermione wanted to shove him right back in again. Her first impression of him hadn't necessarily been good, but she soon realized she'd vastly underestimated him: he was, in fact, a million times worse than Kreacher used to be. Though he did an excellent job of avoiding direct insults, by the end of the day, she was feeling worse about her life situation than she had in years. He deflected all attempts at civil conversation and when he wasn't cleaning or casting every protective spell known to man _and _elf over her home, he was making subtly—and sometimes openly—disdainful comments about every aspect of her life.

Her favorites were, as follows:

"I'm not naming any names, but whoever is continuing to keep this dreadful stinking hairball of a cat alive should be incarcerated."

"It looks as if a hundred generations of dirty people have been breeding on your carpets."

"You impress me with your devotion to equal opportunity, Miss Granger. Hiring a blind interior decorator was a bold move."

"There appears to be a drawer in your bedroom full of some old woman's bloomers. Does your grandmother visit often? Shall I have them all mailed back to her, or burned?"

"You know, tableware _does _come in styles that aren't nearly so ugly."

"It sounds as if you're rising rather slowly in the Ministry. Have you been unable to leave a lasting impression on your superiors? Shall I perhaps hem your skirts a little shorter?"

The odd thing was, no matter how she raged back at him, he seemed only to find her entertaining. She tried avoiding him, but her home wasn't that large and he was doing a fine job of discreetly following her around. When she dared ask what he'd done with her sofa cushions (because the ones now decorating her couch were much nicer), he'd announced that he'd shrunk them, ran them through the garbage disposal, and replaced them with a few from the Malfoys' storage. The covers on her old ones had been a handmade gift from her mother.

"I can have new ones purchased for the Malfoy family and returned to storage later," he assured her while straightening the portraits on the bookshelf, seeming not to notice her standing very close behind him, seething and red-faced and clutching a wooden spoon like a Beater's bat. "What I cannot purchase is a new memory of sitting on your abominable couch for the first time."

She noticed how he subtly positioned every picture that included Ron behind another, blocking Ron from view. The picture of him and Hermione kissing in front of the lion exhibit at the Bristol Zoo, which Hermione had completely forgotten about, lay face-down under a pile of books Fergus had stacked on it in alphabetical order. She didn't have time to question this odd behavior, because at that moment Fergus started to push the litterbox out the window with Crookshanks still in it, and that required her full attention.

The little elf avoided the microwave, television, and all other overtly electrical implements in Hermione's apartment. He didn't even deign to wipe the thick layer of dust off her stereo, though he certainly didn't spare it any dirty looks. As night fell and Hermione started switching on the lights, she found them mysteriously burning out behind her, replaced with her emergency candlesticks. She caught Fergus lighting the last of them in her bedroom.

She admit she lost her cool a little.

"Those are for power outages," she snarled at him. "The electric lights work just fine. You've broken all my bulbs, you little shit, even the fucking spares!"

"Electric lights are the foulest of all Muggle inventions," he announced. "They are noisy and cast an ugly stale light, and the long rectangular one in the kitchen _blinks_. I nearly had an epileptic spell watching it."

"The blinking isn't that bad, and I was planning on replacing the bulb when it went out on its own! It was still working fine! And what do you mean, they're noisy?"

"I can hear them," he said, his large ears quivering indignantly. "It is a heinous and offensive noise. Your ridiculous Muggle boxes were also buzzing incessantly, that is why I have pulled all of their tails out of the walls, and killed the—what did you call them? Bulbs?" He sniffed haughtily. "I can still hear the humming in the walls where the Muggles have hidden the wires that feed all of your riffraff, but it is a bearable din. These candles will do for now, but I'd recommend investing in a set that hasn't been scraped out of a bargain bin. You will have to purchase more tomorrow when you brave the outside world." He paused. "It will be dangerous out there. Lucius might have worked out your identity by now. He might even be waiting for you tomorrow. I shudder to think of what he will do to you… _if only _you had some backup… someone to keep an eye on things, make sure you don't get killed when your back is turned…"

Hermione ignored the barbs: there were too many to contend with, and she'd had all day to fume at him without results (she felt a hundred times more sympathetic for Draco and even Lucius now). She gritted her teeth and breathed deep. Notwithstanding her current feelings, now wasn't the time to turn away help: her fear of Lucius outweighed her hatred for his butler. "Well then, will you come with me tomorrow as backup?"

Fergus raised an eyebrow. "Is that a serious request?"

"Er, yes."

He rolled his eyes. "Well then, voice it like a command."

"What—?"

"I cannot follow requests unless they are given as commands."

"Oh. Okay then." She coughed and said, in an awkward wooden voice, "Fergus, I command that you accompany me to the Ministry tomorrow as backup."

"No."

His face split into a wide grin at her incredulous expression. "Ah, I've wanted to do that all day. You really know nothing of elves, do you? How unfortunate that such an ignorant person is our mouthpiece to the wizarding world. I am sorry, Hermione Granger, but you are no master of mine, and as such I do not take orders from you. I deigned to bend the rules while you were under the Polyjuice, but not now." He glanced at his watch. "Since you've insisted, however, I'll tag along using the _free will_ your radical political group has foisted on us elves. But first let me whip up a Disillusionment Tonic. It works better and lasts longer than the spell. Where is your cauldron?"

Hermione glared at him. "Under the sink."

"Very well, I shall set to work. Please do not disturb me for the rest of the evening."

_As if I'd voluntarily talk to you_, she thought, but settled for flipping him off behind his back.

* * *

Hermione didn't see Fergus again until seven o'clock the following morning. She was feeling remarkably positive towards him today: she'd gotten a decent enough night's sleep that had dulled all the raw nerves, and besides, she had a notorious soft spot for elves. She decided to forgive him for all the nasty things he'd said. After all, he'd been the Malfoys' elf for centuries, what had she expected?

She found him balanced on a stool in front of her stove, dusting pepper over a few fried eggs and tomatoes. One burner over, bacon and sausages were sizzling, and he even had bread toasting manually right on the flames. Nearby, the kettle was whining and a few oranges were squeezing themselves into a glass.

"Please, do sit down," Fergus said without turning. He waved a hand; the food arranged itself artfully on a plate, and it, along with the juice, a mug of tea, and all the fixings soared gracefully onto the table. "I was confronted with a bit of a challenge this morning. Your storeroom is poorly stocked, as well as your…" he scowled disapprovingly, _"refrigerator, _which I was forced to touch. I had to duck back home and borrow some supplies. I only just avoided Francis."

"Sorry," Hermione said, sitting at the table. "I don't eat breakfast most days. I'm fine with just a coffee on the way to work. But thank you for making me this, it looks amazing." She managed a smile.

He sniffed. "Only layabouts skip breakfast," he chided, "and it is astonishing to me that you have reached such a… mature age without learning to cook it for yourself."

Hermione's smile slid off her face. Well, so much for that. "Actually, I _can_ cook. I wasn't the best at it until I moved in with… until a few years ago. Now I think I'm quite good, but like I said, breakfast isn't my thing, I usually only make lunch and dinner—"

"Breakfast," Fergus cut her off, "is the _most _important meal of the day, and the most delicious. What if this frail Muggle building were to collapse and trap you in this miniscule flat"—Hermione rolled her eyes—"and all you had to rely on for a morning meal from now until a horrific early death were _sandwich fixings?"_

Hermione blew a strand of hair out of her face. She'd never had to deal with someone this sarcastic since perhaps Professor Snape back at Hogwarts. "Well, thanks very much for looking out for me."

"You know, I could teach you to cook," he said, a condescending lilt in his voice. He ignored Hermione's repeated snarl of "I already _can!"_ and went on, "I try to teach the Malfoy children to fend for themselves in the kitchen, so that if, god forbid, things really went downhill for the family, they'd be able to manage, but in this area I fear you'd be nearly as hopeless as Draco. I desisted with him after a single lesson." He paused. "On the other hand, Lucius is an excellent chef."

Hermione—who was grudgingly enjoying her breakfast—looked up from her plate, surprised. "He is?"

"Possibly the best of the lot," Fergus nodded, looking askance at her. "Admittedly he doesn't care for it, he lets us elves do our jobs, but then, Lucius tends to master things quite easily regardless of his interest level." When Hermione met his eyes, he turned away, speaking casually to her cooktop. "I perused your bedside bookshelf while you were sleeping and I couldn't help but notice the two of you have nearly the same personal collection."

Hermione flushed (not only because Fergus had been in her room when she was _sleeping_ for Christ's sake) and went back to her plate. "Oh really?" she said, mimicking his nonchalance.

He came to sit across from her with his own breakfast: a single egg and strip of bacon. "Yes," he said, laying a napkin in his lap (with a reproving look at Hermione, whose napkin was still pinned under her butter knife). "Forgive me, but while I was cleaning all the dirty fingerprints off said bookcase, I saw a picture of you at the ribbon-cutting of the Liverpool Preschool for Young Wizards and Witches." He chewed a bite of egg. "Lucius oversaw that project."

Hermione was stunned. "Malfoy was involved with that? But I didn't see his name on any of the paperwork, or at the opening ceremony."

"Oh, I assure you, he was there. You are not the only one who knows how to brew Polyjuice. He has to conduct these sorts of things anonymously now, since the family name is poison, but he covered nearly all of the building costs and did all the accounting work. He is exceptional with numbers. On paper he was _William Romine_, I'm sure you'll have read that name_._" Fergus smirked when Hermione paled. "Actually, he asked me to draft one or two of the curriculums, since I have a _touch_ of experience with the pre-Hogwarts education of young witches and wizards. I understand a few of my syllabi are in use now."

Hermione was gawping. "You're kidding."

"No."

"But you're the first elf to contribute to wizardkind so directly! If you became a member of the Society for Elfish Exoneration and spoke at a rally or two, you could really inspire—"

"No," Fergus cut her off. "Elves are not here to be inspiring, nor to be inspired. I view your cause as a terribly misguided joke, and I would never participate."

Only years of hearing similar phrases from nearly everyone kept Hermione from losing her shit. Still, there was something particularly enraging about seeing such an educated, self-respecting elf like Fergus say it in his polished voice. She felt her anger hit a peak, and her voice warbled when she spoke.

"Well, Fergus, I'm really sorry you feel that way. I'm sorry you think the way the Malfoys have treated you has been anything close to fair. I'm sorry you've deluded yourself into thinking they're your family and not slavers who have been taking advantage of you. And I'm sorry they've made you into such a despicable person. You've been terrible to me ever since we got here, and you know what? It stops now. I know what I did to Lucius was wrong, I know you care about him, and I'm grateful for your help, but that doesn't give you the right to—to treat me like _this."_

She set her fork down sharply, her breakfast half-eaten. "If you want to join me at the Ministry today as backup, you're still welcome to. If you want to run back to Lucius and tell him where I am, then good riddance. Either way I'm leaving in ten minutes." And with that she retreated back to her bedroom without seeing his reaction.

Hermione let herself seethe and throw pillows for a few minutes before letting herself process what had happened. She felt drained and, once her anger began to ebb, anxious. _Damn it, he's going to be an even bigger pain in the arse now. Or he's gone and rounded up Malfoy and they're waiting for me by the front door._

She thought about sending an owl to Harry. Confessing to everything and pleading for his help. But she immediately rejected the idea. Lucius and Fergus had dirt on her that simply could not be allowed to surface; if either were apprehended, everything would come out.

Her only option was to face the music.

She turned around and screamed a little when she saw Fergus standing in her doorway, his ears laid back, his expression just skirting the edge of contrite. He cleared his throat. "Forgive my impertinence, Miss Granger," he said curtly. "I have been ornery. Please allow me to help you prepare for work."

Hermione hesitated, then—inevitably—softened. "I forgive you. Yes, you can help."

Five minutes later she sorely regretted it. While styling her hair, he asked, "Would you consider investing in a wig?" and then, while doing up her face: "I see you were being frugal when you purchased your makeup. It may benefit you to rethink that decision." Her favorite, though, came when he reviewed her outfit: "This blouse—you chose it because you've given up all hope of finding a husband, yes? My dear girl, a woman _always_ has options, but not wearing that."

She may have been livid with him again had she not looked so stunning after he finished. He hadn't even used much makeup at all, just done a few things to her eyes and painted on a bit of lipstick and a little blush. Whatever he'd done, though, looked amazing. Really, she hadn't looked this good since Harry and Ginny's wedding years ago, and then it had taken her five hours to achieve. Still, a few times she'd nearly turned into an elf-murderer and she didn't want to think about the repercussions of that on her career.

Fergus at last deemed her acceptable and went off to take his Disillusionment Tonic. He met her at the front door; she felt his hand grab her wrist, and he asked, "Where is your office?"

"In the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Level 2, room 245. Why—?"

Before she could say another word, he apparated them directly there.

The room was empty. Lucius wasn't sitting there in her office chair, like she'd half-expected him to be. She didn't know how stressed she'd been until that point: it was like a brick had been taken out of her stomach.

"You could've warned me," she snapped at Fergus, though secretly she appreciated the convenience. Apparation for wizards into the Ministry was only achievable in the Atrium, he'd saved her a ride in the lift and lots of walking. Fergus did not respond, though she heard him patter away to a chair in the corner of her office, and saw the cushion depress when he sat.

Three hours of steady pencil-pushing later and Hermione was feeling much more confident in her safety. Lucius hadn't come barging through her door yet; she imagined that even if he _had_ figured out her identity, he wouldn't dare try anything in the bowels of the Ministry, with the Auror office just down the hall. It was silly, really, that she'd been so afraid.

She was just drawing up a report about a wizard in Cornwall who'd broken his parole by selling a maliciously charmed pair of mustache clippers when Belby stepped in.

"Hermione!" She glanced up at him, and his steps faltered. He was quiet a moment, trying to find his tongue. "What's the occasion?" he asked at last.

She stared at him, nonplussed. "What do you mean?"

"You look different. Is it somebody's birthday?"

She then remembered Fergus had fixed her up earlier. She flushed. "Oh, no. Nobody's birthday. I just decided to… do something different."

Belby was a professional, and accordingly he left the topic alone at that, but Hermione didn't miss the way his eyes lingered slightly longer on her than they used to, nor the fact that his cheeks were a little pinker than before. "Any headway on the Malfoy case?"

Hermione tensed, but only for a moment. Belby tended to ask her that every Monday morning. Brilliant way to start the week, really. "Nothing new yet, sorry. I've got Duke Rincon from Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes sending me his analysis of an explosion that occurred in one of the Malfoy apothecaries back in February. Maybe they had an erumpent horn. If so, we could charge them with holding and illegal substance with the intent to sell; that'd be enough to get a warrant to search all of their properties again, and maybe this time we'll find their stash. If it wasn't a horn, then maybe someone planted a bomb. If that's the case we could focus on tracking the bomber down, seeing why they're so disgruntled with the Malfoys. Maybe they have a few secrets to tell."

Belby's smile vanished. "Sounds like a long shot."

"We won't know until Rincon gets back to me."

Belby huffed. "Hermione, I've got a stack of reports on my desk that need addressing. Crimes related to Doxie Dust keep piling up and the supply isn't dropping off. This has got to stop. I _know _Lucius Malfoy is involved." He glanced at her report. "And I know you've had a tough few weeks trying to work this puzzle out, and you're discouraged. But I need you to refocus. You have a lot of sway in this department: people here respect you. Our superiors respect you. Any evidence, even the smallest piece, will be taken seriously."

Hermione gritted her teeth but did her best to look earnest. "I understand, Mr. Belby," she said. "I'll head straight to the DMAC right away and get the report from Rincon myself." She stood, and Belby looked mollified. Thankfully he didn't notice the transparent silhouette of an elf slip out the door behind them.

Fergus followed Hermione all the way to the DMAC and back. She found herself reassured by his presence; if anyone could save her from a random Lucius-generated attack, it was that damnable little elf. She could've done without him following her into the bathroom, though.

Back in her office, Hermione combed the report over twice. Turned out, the explosion that occurred on the Malfoy property was actually caused by a child mixing ingredients behind the counter while the clerk wasn't looking. Nobody had been hurt, thankfully, but that left Hermione with no other leads. Well, aside from the obvious.

"You know," Fergus said suddenly, making her jump, "I find the best way to brainstorm an issue is by taking a walk."

Hermione grit her teeth. "That's nice for you. But some of us work in offices, and are required to be present during working hours."

"It's no surprise you're single, really, no man could satisfy you after you've had such a massive stick lodged up your ass."

Hermione turned on the empty-looking chair where Fergus sat. "Oh my god_ you son of a bitch! How dare—?"_

"I am merely proposing you take a break." She heard his feet hit the floor. "Come along, it's lunch hour for normal people. We'll go to that new park they've put in Diagon and throw things at birds. It relaxes Draco; perhaps you have more in common with him than consistent fuck-ups."

"I don't _want _to go to the park!" Hermione snarled, remembering her impromptu meeting with Narcissa. Just thinking about the woman made Hermione's gut ache. "Shouldn't I be lying low?"

"It's the last place Lucius would be," Fergus insisted. "And anyway I'm dreadfully bored with spying on these hopeless Ministry twats. I will surely lose my mind if I must spend another minute here. By the way, you may want to report the lad down the hall, he masturbates at his desk." When she ignored him, every single drawer on the numerous filing cabinets in her office sprang open with a crash.

"Your filing system is sub-par," Fergus' voice announced. "I shall now rearrange everything for you."

Hermione slammed her quill down and jumped up. _"Fine, let's go to the park!"_

And without another word, Fergus gripped her wrist and snapped them away.

* * *

Diagon Park was full to bursting today, much more active than the last time she visited. It must've been the unaccountably good weather. Hermione could feel Fergus keeping a hand on her calf as she stomped over to the closest food stall and ordered herself the least terrible thing on the menu. She tried to keep her mind on the Malfoy case but it was impossible. Fergus knew everything, he could easily give her whatever information she needed to condemn Malfoy—and he'd deigned to help her escape Shorecliff. So why didn't he cooperate with her now?

He kept very close as she wandered around; his fingertips never left her leg. She thought at first he was just doing it to avoid bumping into people, or maybe to reassure her he was still there, but as they neared the Hogwarts Memorial he was practically riding on her instep. She tried to shake him off and cuss him under her breath as subtly as possible, but still ended up looking like a loose mental ward patient. Some school-aged boys pointed and laughed at her and an older couple asked if she needed help finding her way home.

"No, no, I'm fine," she assured them through a lockjaw smile, hurrying off in the opposite direction towards a clearer patch of park. Hopefully nobody recognized her or took a picture or, god forbid, nobody from that all-night café was anywhere near here. Any more bizarre behavior from her and she was liable to end up in some dodgy tabloid article speculating about her drug abuse.

As she staggered along unevenly (one leg still weighed down by a belligerent elf) she came to the conclusion that, given the circumstance, her energies would best be spent convincing the little bastard to testify against Lucius in court rather than her continuing to try and find condemning evidence on her own. She was just cooking up some harebrained plot to persuade him when a small yellow ball went hurtling past her ear.

It hit the ground in the same moment the spell took effect. Hermione found her muscles move involuntarily, bringing her to an abrupt halt. She couldn't do anything, couldn't move, couldn't scream—only stand there like a marionette on loose strings and watch as Belgium went sprinting past her, chasing the ball down and snatching it up off the lawn.

The dog spared Hermione a single fleeting look, and it was amazing how much hate an animal could put behind an action; Hermione expected to be ripped to shreds right there on the lawn. But it seemed Belgium didn't care to waste any more time on her: as soon as the dog had the ball she went loping happily back past Hermione, back to something—someone—standing a short distance behind her. Someone she couldn't see, as she couldn't turn her head. It didn't strain her intellect to guess who that might be.

His footsteps were muffled by the grass and the cacophony of outdoor fun, but she still heard them, still recognized them; she stood spellbound, hyperventilating, trying to plead for help or scream for Fergus, but only air puffed out of her throat. In a second, she could see his shadow down by her shoes; two seconds more, and he was standing there in front of her, looking down at her in supreme contempt.

"Miss Granger," Lucius murmured. "Well, well… I would have never pegged _you _as my catfish."

Hermione couldn't answer. The spell on her was so powerful that she couldn't even cry; her eyes stung and welled up but the tears couldn't fall.

Lucius, like Narcissa, had toned down his appearance to brave the public eye. His distinctive hair had been tucked beneath a hat and he'd shucked his usual sweeping robes for slacks and a dark coat. He still had that air of importance, but it was reduced enough now that his identity wasn't obvious. To any onlookers—and there weren't many nearby—he would be nameless. This would look like a conversation, not a hostage situation.

Lucius was waiting for a response, as was his way; when she could offer none, and instead stared up at him in naked fear, a glint of certainty entered his eyes. His lips pressed into a hard line and his stare became flinty cold. Quick as a cat he tried to reach for her, to grab her forearm, but seemed unable to touch her; his fingers stopped a few inches away. Still, her flesh seemed to burn where he drew near.

Lucius' eyes narrowed just a little more. "Fergus?" he growled.

Hermione felt the elf's arms loosen around her leg. He hopped off her shoe, and his contact with her was reduced to a fingertip on the side of her knee; Hermione realized then that it was _Fergus_ freezing her up like this, as well as keeping Lucius from touching her. _Fergus_, her unwieldy savior just a few hours ago, was to blame for all this. Her anger exploded so violently that her vision went red. _That little shit set me up! He brought me here to be recaptured!_ She tried to shoot daggers at him with her eyes but wasn't sure if he saw; he was still almost completely invisible aside from a hair-thin outline that rippled as he moved. Lucius spotted the movement and honed in like a bird of prey; his expression blackened.

"Your word, Lucius," came Fergus' voice. "And quickly, too."

Lucius' jaw tightened. He ignored Belgium as she nosed his hand, trying to get him to throw the ball again. "Fine."

"I need to hear you say it," Fergus insisted.

Lucius scoffed. _"Fine_. I will neither maim no kill you nor the _woman_ until you've said your part. To be frank, all of this nonsense—this public locale, all the theatrics you played last night when you set this little meeting up, and now, demanding these assurances… it's all redundant: you know I'm too curious to kill you. And you _know _I still need to have a chat with her." He shot Hermione a glacial look, and she quailed under his piercing eyes, at last directed right at _her_. Hermione Granger. There wasn't a single iota of warmth in them, not one sliver of fondness, as there had been when he'd looked at her while she impersonated Narcissa. It made her feel about an inch tall.

"And when that curiosity is satisfied, and the need is fulfilled?" To his credit, Fergus did not sound nervous; actually he sounded amused.

Lucius let out a short laugh and pinched the bridge of his nose. "You have some nerve testing me this way, you little bastard. I ought to flay you alive."

"Vacant threats aside, Lucius, if I'm to allow you back into my presence, or anywhere near the girl, I do need to hear it. And please, make it snappy—you've already lingered out here too long for comfort. Anyone could spot you." There was a sharp warning in his voice.

Lucius scoffed again. "Good _god_, fine! I will give you one week. One week, and I won't harm a single hair on your heads, regardless of what happens today. And after… if things go sour, and I am not convinced they won't, it would be enough time for you to go into hiding." His face hardened again. "And if things _do_ go sour—say, if you have some other betrayal in store for me—rest assured that you will need all the time you can get to escape me. Fool me once, Fergus."

"I'll start by saying it's terribly insulting to suggest I've betrayed anyone, least of all you," Fergus sniffed. "You'll be eating your words soon enough once you hear what I have to say."

"We'll see." Lucius put a hand on Belgium's head. "Back to the manor?"

Hermione's heart leapt up into her throat; she tried again to fight Fergus' spell, but she might as well have been pushing against a stone wall.

"No," Fergus said sharply. "We go to the girl's place. I meant for us to stay there for the time being. It is, at the moment, safer."

A ringing filled Hermione's ears; she redoubled her efforts to break free. Her eyes were again so full of tears she couldn't see. Oh Merlin, no. God, no. Fergus was going to bring Lucius into her _home_. The place where she _lived_. Even with some flimsy assurance that Lucius wouldn't kill her in the next week, she'd have no place to go to escape him afterwards; somehow she'd have to give these two psychopaths the slip and go to Harry. Confess everything and seek sanctuary with him or the Weasleys. It was her only chance.

Lucius looked skeptical. "How can it possibly be safer?"

"I spent all yesterday fortifying it. No one would _ever _suspect you were there, and even if they somehow found out, breaking in would be an impossibility."

"Hmm. Well, I cannot fault your thoroughness. Nor your vigilance." His eyes flicked briefly to Hermione. "I assume by her current state that Miss Granger did not know of, nor consent to, your ludicrous little scheme?"

"In my frail old age, I fear that I simply forgot to inform her."

Hermione had never wanted to scream so badly.

"Well, the matter is settled, then," Fergus went on. There was a hint of movement and then Lucius' sleeve fluttered as if caught in a small breeze. "I will apparate us back. Do you have Belgium?" Lucius gripped her collar, and at the same moment, Belgium shot Hermione a murderous glare. Bizarrely, Hermione recalled that her lease didn't permit dogs. She nearly panicked at the thought of being evicted until she reminded herself that there were bigger issues at hand here.

"Very good," said Fergus. "Let's go."

He turned, and they all vanished with him.

* * *

**A/N****: Not the most thrilling chapter, maybe, but the next one ought to make up for it ;) Don't worry, everything will be explained in due course!**

**I know I might be beating a dead horse but I'd like to sincerely thank everyone who's reviewed, I love reading your words and it really means so much! Please keep leaving your two cents, I'm sooo close to 100 reviews I can taste it! Don't make me beg!**


	12. Chapter 12

Fergus did not relinquish his hold on Hermione when they arrived back at her apartment. He pressed his fingertip harder into the side of her knee and she found herself moving against her will to sit on the couch; he waved a hand over her and left her there, stiff as a board and unable to do anything but blink.

Lucius let go of Belgium and she set to sniffing all around the apartment. Hermione could hear things being knocked off tables, cabinets being nosed open, end-tables toppling over, all supplemented by the sound of heavy panting. Fergus seemed none too pleased about it, but he kept quiet. Eventually the dog reentered the room and went to sit beneath Crookshanks' kitty tree, her eyes following the languid progress of a graying, bottlebrush tail as it swayed from the topmost platform. Hermione's knee-jerk reaction was to yell at Lucius to keep his dog under control and away from her cat—but then Lucius sat down on the sofa across from her, boring into her with his knifelike eyes, and all thoughts of yelling anything at him disintegrated.

Fergus sat himself in the armchair between them and clasped his little hands. He seemed a lot calmer now that all of the living things in the apartment were within cursing distance.

"Well then," he said, smiling pleasantly and gazing between Hermione (frozen and horrified) and Lucius (rigid and glowering), "I suggest we get on with this. We all say our parts—myself first, then I'd like to hear from Lucius, and if there's time or if we end up getting bored we might let Miss Granger say a few words. Her or the dog, it depends. Now, let me remind you both that this is a safe place, and we can say anything here without fear of judgment, unless I decide otherwise and I forcibly eject the offender." He bent his large eyes on Lucius, who was now smirking up at the ceiling. "Do you have a comment, Lucius?"

Lucius scoffed a little. "Get on with it, you conceited little shit."

Fergus' smile didn't waver. "Very well. Lucius, on Saturday evening I released this woman, Hermione Granger, from your unlawful imprisonment. I might remind you that I did not act against orders, although I was aware my actions would upset you. I have since avoided your summons, as well as the summons of the other Malfoy elves." Lucius was glaring at him now, all frosty rage; Fergus lowered his ears and spread his hands upwards in a plaintive gesture. "All of this I did for good reason. You divulged your plans for the girl to me, and I realized that, if this woman impersonating Narcissa was merely a lowly grunt in the Ministry, everything would fail. You would not be believed and our situation would be further jeopardized—we only have one chance to pull this off, you see. The stakes are already so high.

"When Miss Granger here summoned me to your bedroom to plead for my help—and she was, at the time, transformed back—I had to make a snap decision. I knew you would deem her suitable for your plan: a famous war heroine, the last person who could be discredited or ignored should she speak on your behalf. I knew you would make that call instantaneously. But I was not so certain. Her actions with the Polyjuice were desperate and stupid and I felt that more concrete evidence of her high status was necessary before I would allow you to use her and perhaps endanger yourself even more.

"Now, I realize I didn't discuss the matter with you. And the reason being is that I simply had no time. I needed to act immediately in order to make her believe I was sympathetic to her. Had I taken the time to argue with you over it, she might have been suspicious. By making my snap decision, I was able to win some of her trust, and find out more about her career and her standing in the Ministry, as well as create a safehouse out of her god-awful flat."

Fergus glanced at Hermione. "I have since determined that she is quite respected in her position regardless of her ridiculous SEX group and her total lack of common sense. When all is said and done, they will listen to her. I hereby give you my blessing to proceed."

Lucius raised an eyebrow. "Why didn't you tell me this last night, when you stuck your head in the Floo and screamed at me loud enough to deafen God that I ought to visit Diagon Park at noon tomorrow? You made me spill my brandy."

"I wasn't completely confident that you wouldn't kill me on sight," Fergus said cheerfully. "In any case I wasn't convinced that she was worth her salt last night. That was confirmed to me today, by her boss."

Lucius frowned. "And what if it _hadn't_ been confirmed today?"

"You would've found me standing in the park ready to hand her over regardless, but I would've at least been able to tell you that she was an unfit candidate for your plan." Fergus raised an eyebrow to match Lucius. "How were you able to identify us so quickly? I was planning on calling to you once I saw you, but by that time you were already coming over."

"I discovered her identity on my own," Lucius said. "Or I had a very good idea of it, in any case. There are very few attendees at Piotrowski's concerts. All I had to do was check the guest list of his last one and select the most likely options." His eyes bored into Hermione's again; she tried to bear his gaze but eventually the pounding in her ears became unbearable and she had to shut her eyes. "Miss Granger was the most likely. She has… something of a rebellious streak, believe it or not. The stint she pulled with the Polyjuice would not be out of place on her scandalous record. When I saw her in the park I assumed you were with her, unseen. If my guess had been wrong, well…" Hermione opened her eyes a sliver and caught the small, enigmatic smile on Lucius' lips. "I would have merely had a delightful conversation with Miss Granger and been on my way."

Fergus looked impressed. "Well then, you seem to understand my actions. You therefore will have no difficulty allowing this whole matter to be water under the bridge." He held out a hand. "Truce?"

Lucius' smile vanished. "You did not only do this to make sure the girl was worth the risk," he growled. "You and I both know you did it to lure me out of the manor and into this… bunker you've made out of the girl's home. And I detest that. I do not need the extra protection and I resent your incessant _stewing_ on the matter."

Fergus dropped his hand, but his smile didn't waver. "If you're going to hate me because I prefer your head on your shoulders and not rolling across the floor, then by all means, burn me in effigy. Either way I'm not sorry."

Lucius clenched his jaw, and for a moment it seemed he might go on arguing, but then he rolled his shoulders and huffed out a conceding little sigh. "Fine," he said, and (to Hermione's shock) he extended his hand, which Fergus immediately took and shook once, firmly, "truce. You won't need to go into hiding. The matter is done now, in any case." He sat back on the couch looking displeased but considerably less stormy. "I would like to point out, however, that it is unacceptable for you to doubt me and I will not tolerate such antics in the future. Furthermore, you need to reign in your paranoia. Miss Granger _is_ the perfect candidate for my plan, even if her standing in the Ministry was laughable. All your nosing around was superfluous: _I _could have made the right call." His eyes narrowed. "Kindly do _not _interfere like that again."

Fergus bowed his head. "Very well, Master Malfoy. My apologies." He didn't sound terribly sincere but Lucius seemed not to care; his eyes were already back on Hermione.

Idly he flicked a hand at Fergus. "Please go undo whatever it was Belgium has done to this… place, and allow myself and Miss Granger a private word." He smiled gently. "Unstick her tongue but leave the rest of her as is."

Fergus bowed again and, with another twirl of his fingers at Hermione, left the room.

Hermione gulped. She wasn't sure if she could speak now, but regardless she had no idea what to say. Lucius pulled his hat off and allowed his platinum hair to flow down; he wore an odd expression, something like cool detachment with the faintest hint of interest, as if she were some amusing streetside performer that had barely caught his eye, and might earn a Knut from him with the right trick.

"It's been some time since I've seen _you_," he said at last.

Hermione gulped again. "I don't know what you're planning to do with me, but I hope you know that I sent an owl to Harry earlier and he's planning on coming over soon—"

"No," Lucius said softly, giving her that gentle, knowing smile, "I don't think so. At this moment I imagine Mr. Potter, along with everyone else in your spiraling double-life, believes you're at lunch. It's unfortunate that you happened to eat that bad scallop, though." He raised his voice slightly. "Fergus, please send a note to the Ministry informing them of Miss Granger's terrible food poisoning or giardia or what have you. She's just come down with it, you see, and I fear she won't be fit to return to work for some days."

"I will at once, sir."

Lucius leveled his gaze back on her and added softly, "How terrible. But how fortunate for me—that will give us a little time to plan."

Hermione felt cold. "Please," she said, and it she hated herself for how closely the word resembled a sob, "please don't do this." She shuddered involuntarily. "I'll do anything."

Lucius arched an eyebrow. "What exactly do you believe I am going to do to you?"

She swallowed. There were a million possibilities, each worse than the last. She settled on the most likely option. "Ransoming me."

"For what?" Lucius demanded. "And from whom? Your parents? Mr. Potter? You believe I want their money or possessions? Come now, Miss Granger, I know you're a far more capable thinker. I have more money than I could spend in a lifetime. I could purchase anything I desired." He beckoned. "Try again."

She hiccoughed. "T-torturing me."

His other eyebrow rose to join the first. "Torturing you?" he repeated quietly. "You mean with the Cruciatus? Or perhaps manually, with your own belts and burners and kitchen knives? Perhaps you thought I might drown you to within an inch of your life in your own bathtub, or worse—maybe you feared I might force myself upon you?"

Hermione was well and truly crying again. Honestly, she spent more time in tears than not nowadays.

Lucius _tsk_ed. "Calm yourself, Miss Granger. Use your beloved logic. Whyever would I do those awful things to such a beguiling young witch? To put a bad taste in my mouth, perhaps earn myself a life sentence to Azkaban or a Dementor's Kiss? I may not have the cleanest of records, but I am no senseless monster, and I believe you know this to some degree. You've attempted to sabotage my life, but I will admit to having done the same to you once or twice in the past. What's done is done: what matters now is that we are here in this unsavory situation together. I suggest we put our differences behind us and proceed unencumbered."

Hermione couldn't prevent an angry tongue-click. Lucius tilted his head, waiting. She tried to control herself—she knew she was only digging herself deeper—but the words came tumbling out as they always did, breathless and unrestrained. "I'm having a hard time imaging you'll put _all _our differences behind us."

He smiled again with instant comprehension; Hermione took a moment to appreciate how sharp he was. She couldn't remember the last time she'd dealt with someone who just _knew_ what she meant right off the bat. It was disconcerting. "If you're referring to your blood-status, I can only insist again that we _put our differences behind us_. It will be necessary in the coming days."

She practically snarled, _"I can't just put my blood-status behind me!"_

"I have."

They stared at each other a long moment. Something lifted then—something in Hermione changed, lightened. Almost as if she'd been filled with helium. A chill rushed from her scalp to her toes as she stared directly into his eyes; the pounding was back in her ears. He stared back, his posture open, receptive, his face expectant. Somehow she didn't doubt his simple admission. She believed him.

At long last he spoke. Thank god, because Hermione couldn't have forced out anything if she'd tried. "I'm asking you to listen to my proposal. Will you?"

Hermione unstuck her tongue. "Do I have a choice?"

"You always have a choice."

She huffed out a small, sad laugh. "Fine. Go on."

"I need you to catfish again." Her jaw dropped, but he ploughed on pitilessly, "I need you to masquerade as Narcissa, but this time you will be fooling another man, and this time it is going to work, because the man you will be fooling has never met Narcissa. I need you to come to the board meeting I mentioned back at Shorecliff." He paused. "I must make a confession right now, but it will remain between us. I _am _involved in the mass distribution of illegal substances—"

"AHA!" Hermione wanted to point at his face, but Fergus' spell still held her captive. She settled for a vindicated grin. _"I knew it!"_

"Very astute of you," Lucius said coldly. "The Malfoy family has been involved in such activity for many, many years. It is a very close-kept secret. So close-kept, in fact, that I only learned of it the day my father retired and I took over the business. A group of men accosted me, took me to some dank basement and put me through a round of torture and intimidation. I was told to run the companies as they have always been run: smoothly and efficiently, all the while turning a blind eye and a blind abacus to the underground railroad of Dark materials passing through my shops and warehouses. I would do this, or my entire family would be wiped from the earth, one by one. These are not reasonable men, Miss Granger. Their wealth and lifestyles depend on my ability to transport and sell their merchandise. Failing to do so would forfeit more than I have to give."

Hermione's mind was racing, absorbing his words as fast as he could get them out. "I've been on your case for a while," she said at last, "and I haven't found a trace of any illicit activity in your businesses. The buildings have been checked, the numbers match up."

"As they should. Do not concern yourself with the logistics; given a few centuries, _any_ organization could master the art of deception. The system is airtight. We have been held under scrutiny in the past and have always been found guiltless."

Hermione suddenly recalled Fergus' worry over Lucius' safety. "I'm guessing something went wrong recently?"

Lucius glanced aside, and although his voice remained deceptively light, Hermione could see the stress in his face. "Within the last few years I have been experiencing some… difficulty. With Draco."

Hermione blinked. "Draco?"

"He has been… wrestling with an addiction." Lucius paused. "To Doxie Dust."

"Oh my god."

"The irony is not lost on me," Lucius snapped. "Forgive me for not finding the situation very humorous. My son took up the habit immediately following the War. He was unable to cope with the traumas he experienced while living in this house with that… with the Dark Lord and his followers. And I was ill-equipped to help him."

Remorse just whispered under Lucius' tone, but Hermione could tell he was carrying around a mountain of guilt where his son was concerned. She didn't even want to think about the tangled, thorny mess that was his and Draco's relationship. "Anyway," he went on, "that is the situation. I knew what was happening within a week he began, but was unable to get him into rehabilitation until two years later, when I finally threatened disownment. He went, but he also cut me out of his life entirely and vowed to never speak to me again. It is my understanding that, until this year, he was doing reasonably well. Married, even… But he relapsed. And I know he relapsed only because my manufacturers told me. They have discovered his addiction and they have been using it to their advantage."

Hermione blinked again. "Wait," she said slowly, "so they've been…? What? Giving him drugs—"

"—in exchange for information on me, the company, escalating amounts of money… anything they wish," Lucius finished, "including allowing them permission to store and sell more Dark materials than our inventories can safely handle. It has reached the point that the whole system threatens to collapse. Draco either does not understand what he's doing, or does not care—or perhaps he's afraid. Doxie Dust can induce paranoia, and he has never been the… most intrepid of boys to begin with."

Hermione recalled Draco's unwillingness to walk past windows and felt a pang in her gut. Suddenly a lot of Draco's odd behavior made sense. She wasn't at all fond of him, in fact she still thought of him as the hurtful teenager with the penchant for spitting venom, but her heart wasn't made of stone: being driven to drugs because of extreme suffering wasn't something she'd wish on anyone, even him. She couldn't fault him for passing up counseling, either: such things were nonexistent in the wizarding world. Hermione had found it necessary to speak with someone in the year following the War and it had helped immensely with her anxiety attacks, but she'd had to go into the Muggle world for care. How strange it was, that no wizarding healers had branched out into the realm of healing the _minds _of their patients…

"I don't know where his head is right now," Lucius was saying, "as he still refuses to see or speak with me. Every time I get within five meters of the damned fool he apparates to god _knows _where and goes missing for days. He also refuses to speak with any of the elves."

Hermione frowned a little. It was on the tip of her tongue to point out that, if he wanted to get back on speaking terms with Draco, it might help to not refer to him as a "damned fool," but somehow she didn't think he'd listen to her parenting advice.

"I have attempted to cut him out of the family business," Lucius continued, "and to close off his access to the accounts, but my so-called business partners were waiting for me to try it. They _dissuaded _me from such actions by threatening to kill him. They are now applying increasing amounts of pressure on me to retire and leave the business to Draco."

He paused. "As a Death Eater, I earned their respect and fear. It was the main reason I joined The Cause: they feared the Dark Lord and his influence. They kept their distance from me and allowed me to manage my empire as I saw fit—which included constricting their input to a bare minimum. But everything changed after the second War." He pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing his eyes. "I have, time and again, refused their urgings to step down and officially sign the company over to Draco. I have not been very tolerant of the changes to the company, either, and they have made their displeasure obvious. Fergus is convinced they will soon try to kill me. I know that the only reason they have not done so already is that the family is under the Ministry's scrutiny. They don't want to bring forth any more unwanted attention to their dealings. But their patience runs thin."

Hermione was now grateful for Fergus' binding spell: without it she would've been reeling in her seat. "And what am I supposed to do about this?" she demanded at last. "This is insane! This is way too dangerous to handle ourselves! We have to go to the Aurors right away, you have to testify—"

"No," Lucius said firmly. "You do not understand the situation. I have never learned the names of these individuals, nor where they are based. If I waltz into the Ministry with nothing but tales of my participating in the Dark market, with no information on these men, I shall be thrown back into prison, or perhaps Kissed, and Draco will go down with me. And my associates will walk free, protected by their anonymity. It will take them some time to restart their operation, but I do not believe they will be out of business for long. Nothing will have been achieved."

Hermione stared at him, her eyes wide and incredulous. "Lucius—Mr. Malfoy," she corrected, and saw a small hint of a smile grace his lips for just a second at her slip, "you can't be serious about this."

"But I am." Lucius leaned forward slightly. "I am proposing we take down the large majority of the Dark market. You get your promotion or whatever it is that keeps you going in life, and I get a very troublesome monkey off my back. But my plan requires your cooperation, and I also need some reassurance that myself and Draco will be pardoned for our involvement. That will not be possible unless you vouch for us. The Ministry will listen if you do. We did not ask to be in this situation and I am willing to risk everything to help the Ministry put an end to this madness."

Hermione gulped. "And what if I refuse?"

"Then I will have no choice but to press charges against you for using Polyjuice to try and entrap me. I will also take this story to the press. My and Fergus' memories can be searched and Veritaserum may be used as confirmation. I will then attempt to manage the issue of my associates on my own." His gaze hardened. "I would prefer not to take that route."

They sized each other up for a long, hard moment. Hermione was experiencing a curious sensation—the sort of nauseated, adrenaline-fuelled feeling one got before public speaking. She knew what she was going to do even before she allowed the words to form; she knew even before she spoke that she hadn't really gone back-and-forth on the issue at all.

It was _so _unlike her.

"Okay," she said, "I'll help."

Lucius' expression was still heavily guarded. He extended a hand to her. "Give me your word."

Hermione gave him a sour look. "I'm still in a body-bind, Mr. Malfoy."

Lucius withdrew his silver-handled wand from his pocket and waved it at her; then, with it still held aloft in one hand, he extended the other again. "Your word, then, Miss Granger."

She clasped it; it was hot, firm, just rough enough to remind her of the danger she still faced in his presence. "I'll do everything I can," she said, "and I'll also try to get you that pardon because you _are _aiding the Ministry with this major threat, but I can't promise it. I'm doing this because it's my job, Mr. Malfoy, not because I feel like I owe you anything."

He smiled wryly. They both knew she was lying: her compliance had everything to do with the blackmail material he had on her. And even though his posture finally relaxed, Hermione noticed he didn't put his wand down. Somehow she didn't think their little gentleman's agreement had him pacified; no doubt he'd have Fergus dogging her every step for signs of betrayal. Such things were probably unavoidable with a man like him. Trust was not common practice in his world. At least now she was sure he wasn't going to kill her, or not until he'd gotten what he wanted, anyway…

"You said the man I'm supposed to be fooling has never met Narcissa," she said at length. "Who are you talking about?"

"I mentioned him to you before," Lucius said. "You've met him. The man with me in the drawing room, before I spirited you away to Shorecliff. If you'll recall, I mentioned that he goes by Ink."

"Ink," Hermione repeated. "And he's the one you see most often?"

"He is my liaison with these people, yes. To my understanding, he also liaisons with Draco. He so loves telling me details of my son's life but I can never be sure if he's being honest. Most of the time I hope he isn't."

A horrible thought struck Hermione. "What if I end up in a room with Draco He'll see right through me! He's still in contact with Narcissa, he talks to her all the time and he most likely knows she's out of the country—"

"If all goes to plan, you will not interact with Draco at all," Lucius said shortly.

"But what if the plan goes to hell and he comes barging in unexpected? This is his _mother_ we're talking about," Hermione stressed. "I was stupid enough to try and pretend to be your wife, you can't seriously think Draco won't suspect something if his _mother_ starts acting like a completely different person!"

"Draco, I believe, is far enough into his addiction that he may overlook it."

Hermione shook her head. "Even if that were true, it's not the only problem! What am I supposed to do if the _real_ Narcissa pops back around in the middle of this? Or what if they're watching her and they _know _she's out of the country?"

"I do not believe that is the case. They have no reason to do so. Narcissa is not involved in any of these matters, and my associates are not even aware that she and I are divorced—they have no reason to care about such things. But the odds of her returning are why we must work quickly." Lucius held up a hand, cutting off Hermione's billion other worries. "Enough. I need you to sit there, quietly, and listen to my plan before panicking. You are welcome to panic afterwards. Fair?"

Hermione grit her teeth.

"Good," Lucius crooned. "Now, some months ago I discovered something about our friend Ink. It was at the last board meeting—that's what these people like to call their little get-togethers, which are really just an excuse to use my means to throw themselves, and their clients, ridiculous parties. I overheard a few of them chatting him up. Apparently he has a reputation for targeting married women. From the sound of it, he takes great pride in stealing another man's wife. It's a challenge to him, strokes his ego; he also tends to do it out of revenge. If he targets _you_, thinking you're Narcissa, that opens a door into his personal life. You can find out about him and his partners—"

"When?" Hermione spluttered. "Before or after he's done having his way with me? I am _not _going to whore around with a psychopath just to sneak a peek at his ID—"

"I'm not suggesting you _whore around_ with him," Lucius snapped. "I'm suggesting you play coy. Get him interested and a little involved with you. Have conversations with him, and if you play innocent he will eventually grow comfortable enough—"

"He could lie."

"He likely will," Lucius said impatiently. "If you would _listen_, you might've learned that, with some time, my hope is he lets his guard down enough to leave his drink unattended around you, at which point you might slip him some Veritaserum."

"Lucius," Hermione said, "this is too big a risk—"

"You were willing to take it before. With me."

"That was before I realized how idiotic it was!"

"The circumstances are different," he maintained, "but you already know that. Might I remind you that you've agreed to help me. I'll thank you to stop being so damned needlessly difficult. We cannot proceed if you do nothing but sit there agonizing."

Hermione huffed. "Fine! So you and I go to this party together, and in the off chance this man Ink makes a pass at me, I should… what? What would Narcissa do—?"

"Do not pretend to emulate Narcissa. Your performance is wooden and it would only serve to arouse Ink's suspicions. Just act normal."

Hermione blanched. "How am I supposed to _act normal_ when I'm in some shady meeting arm-in-arm with a…"

There was a moment of awkward silence. "With a what?" Lucius prompted.

Hermione swallowed. "My point is, I would never be in that situation, so how am I supposed to pull this off without making a mess of everything and getting us all killed?"

Lucius sighed, then raised his voice and called, "Fergus, if you've sent that note, please fetch a bag of the Columbian beans from home and brew myself and Miss Granger here a full carafe." He added, almost too quietly for Hermione to hear, "This will take a while."

"At once, sir."

* * *

Hermione pushed a flyaway off her cheek and refocused her pencil on her thoroughly broken-in notepad, blinking to try and clear the miasma that had settled in her brain about two hours ago.

"Okay," she said hoarsely, "in the event that there's a woman already around that Ink finds more attractive, or if he's arrived with a date, we've agreed upon Plan D-12, is that right? Or have we decided that Plan D-13 was—Hey! Where are you going?"

Lucius had reached the end of his rope. They'd been holed up in her sitting room drinking coffee and scheming for god _knew_ how long. It was exhausting. Even the most miniscule of details could ignite a ferocious argument and, despite having worked all day, very little headway had been made.

Hermione had always imagined that Lucius was a stubborn sort of man. She'd been wrong, of course. He was downright unyielding. She could tell that he also had a quick temper, although it was something he'd obviously gotten used to controlling: he hadn't raised his voice or made any violent gestures at her, in any case (she wished she could say the same for herself). But when his eyes narrowed just-so, and his body grew still, and his voice dropped to that deep, growling octave that made every hair on her body stand up, it was indisputable: he was angry. And it was very hard not to give in to his demands in those moments.

Sometime around seven o'clock Fergus had brought them a platter he'd obviously prepared at the manor (or Hermione assumed as much, since she couldn't ever remember buying lox) and she and Lucius went on plotting as they ate. The wizened little elf had also lit the flat with a stately new set of candles, so the whole place was awash in the gentle glow quite at odds with the tense atmosphere. Hermione had never felt less comfortable in her home. She wanted to hold Crookshanks for a little moral support, but with Belgium still haunting the foot of the kitty-tree, she dared not try to fetch him down. Somehow she didn't think Lucius' monstrous guard dog just wanted to play gently with her elderly cat.

Hermione slumped back into the couch, defeated. Lucius had vacated his seat (as he'd begun to do more frequently in the last hour) and did not respond to her outburst; rather he went strolling out of the room, examining the pictures tacked to the wall as he went. Hermione finally mustered the strength to get up and follow him, but at that precise moment, Belgium decided she'd had enough of Crookshanks and also jumped up to go after him. They collided at the mouth of the hall.

Hermione flinched back, but something must've happened earlier that she'd missed, because Belgium glanced up at her with a completely different expression than she'd worn in the park. They looked at each other, frozen, Hermione's fists clenched and Belgium's head cocked—then the dog struck a pose that Hermione remembered vividly from an illustration in the dog-training book she'd read earlier that week: forelegs on the ground, furry rump in the air, ears down and eyes squinting.

Belgium was being… _friendly_. She wanted to play.

Hermione wasn't sure what to do. She was too much a cat person. She looked around, spotted the yellow ball Lucius had been throwing in the park, took a step towards it—and the dog seemed to read her mind: she leaped up and went bounding across the room, tongue lolling, snatching up the ball and doing a ricocheting lap around the furniture. She struck her play-pose again, this time near the front door, her tail wagging furiously.

Hermione couldn't help it: she giggled. "I guess this means you've changed your mind about me?" she asked, taking a knee and beckoning. Belgium padded over and dropped the ball into Hermione's hand, grinning her wolf-like grin. Tentatively, Hermione reached out and, when Belgium didn't revert to terrifying aggression, scratched the dog behind her velvety ear. Belgium closed her eyes and leaned into her hand, and Hermione felt a little upwelling of affection; some bad blood was already ebbing away. "Well, _one _of you had to be rational."

There was a thud, and dog and woman glanced over in unison as Crookshanks came padding up to them, mewling hoarsely. Belgium's ears shot forward, her nose twitched, and Hermione went to grab the collar on her neck and yank her back—but the dog only lowered her head and sniffed gingerly at her old cat (who held his ground quite bravely, considering Belgium was about ten times his size). After a tense moment, Belgium's tongue darted out and smeared over Crookshank's face, slicking the fur up into a ridiculous pompadour. Crookshanks spat and retreated at once to the top of his kitty tree to groom, shooting a few sour looks over his shoulder at them. Belgium cocked her head and gave Hermione a quizzical look.

Hermione was laughing—out of humor and relief. "He's just finicky with his hair," she explained to the dog, who grinned, almost as if she understood. It was unnerving. For the first time she wondered if Belgium didn't have a little magical blood in her, like Crooks—most likely, since she belonged to Lucius.

She dared to scratch the dog again, and again the dog leaned willingly into her hand. That little bubble of affection swelled slightly. Well, that was one small load off her chest. Now if only she could get the master to warm up as easily…

* * *

Hermione ran her hands over her face as the spray of the shower beat a steady rhythm on her crown. She'd drug out an old blanket and set Belgium up in a comfy corner of the living room; the dog seemed satisfied with the accommodations and went right to sleep. After a little while, Crookshanks had even come down and snuggled up to her; the sight made Hermione tear up. She snapped a picture to remember this little moment of peace, wondering if it would last through one of Crookshank's deadly flatulence. They said dogs' sense of smell was a hundred times better than a human's…

She then thought about searching for Lucius, but decided she'd much rather shower and get some sleep before she faced him again. She could imagine how dreadful she looked, and no doubt Fergus would settle Lucius into Hermione's spare bedroom. Hopefully the pair of them would keep to themselves until she was ready to deal with them again.

She waltzed back into her bedroom, towel around her, wringing out her hair, and immediately spotted the unfamiliar pile of dark clothing draped over the reading chair she kept in the corner. She caught movement out of the corner of her eye, turned—and nearly dropped her towel in shock.

Malfoy was lying in her bed, plain as day, leaning back into her pillows and casually perusing a book from her collection. And he was naked.

* * *

**A/N****: Took me longer than normal to finish this chapter (been dealing with a nasty breakup, which of course is never great for writing romances). I'm pretty disappointed in it overall, definitely not one of my bests, but I felt like I owed my wonderful reviewers an update for propelling me well past 100r's! Thank you all so very much, I sincerely hope you stick around for the next one! c:**

**And for anyone who was curious, I picture the man named "Ink" as Rufus Seawell. Sorry to non-fans; I think he's quite a looker ;)**


	13. Chapter 13

_Motus Mysticae_, by Absolon de Garmeaux. That was the book Lucius Malfoy had chosen to peruse out of Hermione's bedside collection. It was a very old tome, and quite revolutionary for its time, too, being the first printed book to explain the importance of movement in spellwork. Prior to its publication, spellticians had focused on vocalizations and the syntax of the spells themselves rather than how magic was expressed through the body; _Motus _had reformed the way wizards approached magic and had opened up the then-mysterious realm of nonverbal casting.

Hermione had purchased her copy of the book when she'd still been at Hogwarts, and it had given her a profound new appreciation for her body and its connection with her powers. She must've read it dozens of times; the pages were frail and dog-eared and here and there she'd highlighted and scrawled in the margins.

And now _he _was reading it.

For an inappropriate amount of time Hermione stood there in her towel gaping at him while he read. He was positioned such that the blankets were pooled in his lap, and she had a clear view of his torso; if that hadn't been enough to stall her brain, the absurdity of the situation did the trick.

She tried to think of something to say, but all that came to mind was 'what the fuck' and that didn't seem terribly helpful. After what must've been at least a few minutes Lucius took pity on her and cast her a sideways glance.

"May I help you?" he drawled.

Her jaw dropped further. He'd already gone back to reading but the set of his eyebrows indicated that he was still paying just a sliver of attention to her. She might've laughed, except she was so outraged.

"Um, no, sir," she said, her voice leaden with sarcasm, "can I help _you_?"

"No, thank you," he responded, turning another page, "I'm adequately comfortable. You're dismissed." He flicked his fingers at the door.

This time she _did _laugh, but it came out loud and hysterical and she actually startled herself into silence. Lucius glanced up; he looked a little surprised, and thank god she managed to regain control of her tongue just then because she was just able to cut him off before he started talking, and she didn't want to think about what he might've said.

"You're in my bed."

"That is accurate."

"That's my bed."

"We have established this fact."

She almost choked on her indignation._ "Get out!"_

He raised an eyebrow, then refocused his attention on her book. "No."

There was a beat of silence. "What?"

"No."

"I—what—this—_this is my home!"_ She was finally marshaling up a little anger. "You can't just come in here and take my bed! I'm not going to sleep in the guest bedroom—"

"You're right," Lucius said, still not looking at her, "Fergus is sleeping in there."

Hermione spluttered. "What—so you expect me to sleep on the couch—?"

"Belgium is sleeping on the couch." A rustle of pages. "You will have to sleep on the floor."

He let that stew for a second before checking her expression, at which he laughed aloud and finally set the book aside. "Calm down. You look as if you're having an aneurysm." He picked up his wand and flicked it; a heavy black curtain materialized between them. Malfoy's voice came drifting out from behind it, still light with humor. "Go on, put on your night things."

Hermione glared at the curtain. "This really isn't funny, Mr. Malfoy."

"Don't be tetchy. And enough with the formalities; my name is Lucius, call me that."

"I—" She blushed furiously, struck again by the incongruous fact that he was lying there _naked _on the other side of that curtain like some pompous exhibitionist. Against her will the image of him back in Shorecliff sprung up in front of her eyes: she remembered his body in crystal-clear detail, every hard, smooth inch of it, and the thought of him teasing her like this, _deliberately _climbing into her bed without a stitch on him just to rile her up_—_

It was uncalled for.

Keeping her eyes on the curtain, half-convinced he might suddenly peek out from behind it, Hermione over to her bureau to rummage for clothes. _Someone _had wear them.

Her immediate thought was to don a buried chemise she'd once worn for Ron. It was gauzy and sexy and she'd felt terribly awkward in it, but perhaps it would jar Malfoy enough that she could regain some control of the situation. Tit for tat, right? But as she made a grab for it she stopped, and rethought the decision. She'd only be playing into his hands if she tried to fight on the same dirty turf as him. What she needed to do was let him know that she was not fazed by his little power play—because that's what this was, this little escapade into her bed. He was trying to establish some control over her, intimidate her a little, and she _couldn't_ let him get away with it. Pulling on some frilly outfit was not the way to go about it.

Defiantly, she yanked on her usual sleepwear: a plain blue tank-top and matching cotton pajama pants. Entirely unsexy. She flicked her wand to dry her unruly hair and sent her towel soaring into the hamper. "So I'm guessing you're going to be compliant and move to the guest room?"

"I must say, you're quite a terrible hostess, forcing your guests to share the same stone slab on a boxspring," came Malfoy's purring response.

She flushed and balled her fists. "Well I'm sorry that the accommodations aren't up to your standards, but it's not as if I had any time to prepare! And if you've really got something against putting Fergus out of the spare room, then take the couch. I made a bed for Belgium. She shouldn't be up there in the first place."

"I saw you had done that," came the hated voice, although now she could detect something new there. Something softer. She dared, for a moment, to think that perhaps he'd been moved by her treatment of the dog, but a moment later she decided she must've imagined it because he followed it up with: "She has decided your handiwork was shoddy and has moved herself and the cat on the couch. You aren't _seriously_ going to make her sleep in that thing you made on the floor?"

Hermione could practically feel the steam whistling out of her ears. _"This is my home!_ Your dog should not be on the furniture! And that's my bed! Why should I have to relocate? What would you think of someone showing up at your place and demanding the same?"

The barrier suddenly vanished and Hermione, despite being fully dressed, caved in on herself in panic, her hands jumping up reflexively to cover her. Lucius was lying in the exact same spot, his eyes still on _Motus_. Nothing in his demeanor suggested he'd heard a word of what she was saying, or that was going to budge.

"This marginal note you made?" he said, pointing to the page. "On the intention of the body verses the intention of the mind? It is incorrect."

He might as well have set a bomb off in her face. Indignation, propriety, fear—all were forgotten as Hermione sprang across the room in record time and made a violent grab for the book. She didn't notice the proximity, didn't recall his nudity, and missed the way his eyes darted up just before she reached him, and the tensioning of his muscles as he prepared for impact.

"What—how—_what's incorrect?"_ she shrieked, but her first attempt to get the book back was in vain: Lucius had shut it and was holding it at arm's length away from her, and his other arm was thrown up between them, barring her path. He was a little shocked by her reaction, she could tell, but mostly he seemed amused. And that was infuriating.

With an angry shriek she threw herself over his arm and launched another bid for the book. She realized a moment later that this was the wrong move: her feet were off the ground now and she was practically in his lap, reaching for _Motus_, and he was laughing, his free arm curling around her waist to keep her back, his other still holding the book aloft, just barely out of reach of her flailing fingertips.

"You _give_ me that book!" she howled, trying at first to drag his arm down with her weight, but he was stronger than her, and this was a game to him now. He was grinning, chuckling a little, and all at once it was too much: her frustration with the situation, her indignation, her shame, it all seemed to coalesce into this moment. He was holding the book away from her and enjoying watching her jump for it—just like the schoolyard bullies used to do before she went to Hogwarts. He'd always bullied her, this wretched man. He'd spent his whole life bullying her and people like her. He thought it was funny.

Hermione's fingers curled, her hands becoming clawlike; she grabbed at his wrist again but now she was digging her fingernails into the pristine white flesh and ripping at him. _"Give it to me, you son of a bitch!"_ she screamed, and nearly jumped out of her skin when he replied "No," in the same low, controlled voice as ever, directly into her ear. She turned; they locked eyes, their noses an inch apart; his lips curled up, just a fraction of an inch, in the most viciously taunting smile she'd ever seen, and it was like a rubberband snapped somewhere in her brain and all hell broke loose.

For the first time in her life, Hermione was going at someone with everything she had, writhing in his grasp to kick, scratch, and punch every inch of him she could get at. She saw his expression change, the amusement transitioning to a cold fury. Within moments the book was lying forgotten near the edge of the bed and they were fighting.

Hermione didn't register the furious tears streaming down her face, nor the dull pain around her abdomen where his arm was closed on her like an iron ring, nor the alarming sounds she was making; she was fighting as if to kill, and he wasn't being a very pliant victim. Almost immediately he had one of her arms restrained in a grip like a handcuff; she managed to land a fairly solid blow on his eye before he got the other under control. He slammed her onto her back but she was angry enough that the violent motion had almost no impact on her; her legs were still free, she could still lash out and she did. She got a kick into his shin and saw his face flinch in pain; he grabbed her up and shook her like a ragdoll but she lashed out again and kneed him in the inner thigh. Evidently that crossed some sort of line, because he slammed her back down again, this time hard enough to daze her; she felt a heavy weight on her legs and knew that he must be straddling her now, and vaguely she recalled his state of undress, but it seemed to matter a great deal less now that they might actually kill each other. Her eyes were still swimming; as he restrained more and more of her, her cries of rage began to sound more and more like wails of despair.

She sensed him lean close, perhaps to say something; the pressure on her arms lessen an infinitesimal amount, but it was enough. She lunged; he gasped, and objectively she realized it was the most beautiful sound she'd ever heard. And she bit him.

She'd been hoping to get something vulnerable, like his face or ear, but the combination of her tears and her blind lunge had her sinking her teeth into the meat of his neck. She expected him to shake her again, or maybe even strike her, but the atmosphere in the room took another hairpin turn as he tilted his head back and hissed. It was not the sound of a man in distress. The noise made her angry, though her brain hadn't yet caught up enough to know why. She bit harder and he arched his neck a little more, and she realized why she was mad: he was _enjoying _this. This! She could taste the coppery tang of blood in her mouth, his pure blood, she was biting him hard enough to wound—and he was lapping it up like a cat at a saucer of cream.

With an angry scream she released him and threw her head back, trying and get as far away from him as possible, knocking her temple on the corner of _Motus_ as she did so. But he wouldn't let her off the hook so easily. She felt breath on her cheek and then a ringing pain a little above the joining of her neck and shoulder—the exact spot she'd bit him. Only it wasn't all pain; he was biting her hard, yes, but he was also nuzzling at her, burying his face into the dip of her neck, inhaling, the sharp tip of his tongue stroking a the enflamed flesh, and she could feel every movement, every breath as if each of her senses were flipped on to the highest setting. It was like a surge of electricity burst from the point of contact to every inch of her body; a wave of heat crackled under her skin, and it was terrifying and awful and torturous and unimaginably exquisite all at once.

She made a sound, too. It was not the sound of a woman in distress.

He withdrew; the loss of his touch was like the press of an ice-pack on her burning skin and she writhed, angry again but now for entirely different reasons; he leaned more heavily on her and her movement was restricted to her head. Their noses were millimeters apart; this close up, looking into his eyes was like staring into the sun, but for the first time she had no trouble managing it. There was a red stripe of blood in the center of his lower lip; she zeroed in on it, the splash of color on his otherwise colorless veneer, and breathed out slow as his tongue darted out and swiped it away.

Her blood. Her _dirty _blood.

"Now," he breathed, and at the low, gravelly word she felt the heat roll through her again like a clap of thunder, "as I was saying. That annotation you made…" He forced her hands above her head and pinned them there, freeing up one of his own, so he could grab _Motus_. There was a bizarre moment wherein he laid the book open across her breasts and flicked idly to the right page; still in a state of high arousal, every movement he made seemed hyperreal to her, from the dart of his tongue over his teeth to the dry rustle of his rough fingertips over the old parchment pages.

_He's reading on me,_ she thought. Merlin's fucking pants, it _should not _have been erotic—but she'd be lying if she said it wasn't even a little titillating.

How dare he explore her fetishes without her even knowing they existed first.

She wondered if he was doing it on purpose. He gave her no real clues into the twisted workings of his mind, but there was certainly something roguish about that raised eyebrow. Furious and embarrassed, she screwed her eyes shut and tried to think about unsexy thoughts, which were intermittently interrupted by the unhelpful sound of pages turning and the caress of his breath on her collarbones. Rather than conjuring up images of Dumbledore naked, however, Hermione found herself focusing almost exclusively on a spot in her lower abdomen, where she could feel an unyielding, unmistakable pressure asserting itself on her—almost familiar now. It struck her then that he was getting just as much perverse enjoyment out of this as her. Likely he fancied treating her like a table. Arsehole.

"Ah," he said, at last finding the right page; she'd been so focused on other, more pressing matters that the quiet exclamation made her jolt. He smiled as he held up the book and showed her the page. "Here. On the mind verses the body. _Motus _details how, in the event a spell is cast nonverbally, the needs of the body more frequently outweigh the direction of the mind when they are at odds—that is, magic is channeled more by the unconscious than the conscious. That is why wandless magic is considered arcane: it is so tied to the body that it can seldom be controlled by the mind. And yet, here you wrote that the mind is more powerful than the body, and that if a spell were cast with the mind wanting one thing, but the body another, the magic will always take direction from the mind." He shut the book with a rich thud. "You are wrong."

She considered spitting in his face, he looked so fucking smug. Instead she gritted her teeth and ground out, "No, I'm not. The mind controls the body and the body does _not _have a final say, as Garmeaux seems to think. That's utter rubbish. In wandless magic, the mind gets what it wants because it's impossible for the body to want something enough to overrule the mind."

"Really?" he drawled, tossing the book aside; the shit-eating little smirk hadn't vanished off his face and it was driving her mad. "So when I do this"—he leaned in fast and nipped her ear; goosebumps broke out on that entire side of her body, and she jerked her head involuntarily to the side, giving him _better_ access—"that is your mind having the final say?" His tongue darted out and stroked up the ridge of her auricle, soothing over the marks. She shuddered. "There is no conflict within you about this? Forgive me, but if you were to perform wandless magic now, I highly doubt even _you _would know what would happen…" He nuzzled into the delicate flesh around her hairline, kissing her, occasionally biting her, and her breath began to hitch and quake as if she were sobbing. And she was, in a way—sobbing because she hated him, hated everything he was, everything he was doing.

But god, how she _wanted _him.

Her knee-jerk reaction was to defend her original stance, the one she'd written in the book. But in doing so she'd be claiming that all of the insane things her body was doing in reaction to his ministrations were all fully sanctioned by her mind. Well, there was nothing conscious about the way her spine was curving so she could rub up against him like some starving alley cat. But if she admitted she was wrong, that her mind actually wanted nothing to do with this, and in fact she wanted very much to go back to beating him up and yet there she was, lying quite still beneath him and letting him carry on torturing her because that's what her _body _wanted… what would happen?

Would he stop if she admitted her brain was very much against this—whatever it was?

Did she _want _him to stop?

"You're manipulating me," she forced out. It seemed to be the last bit of reality she could cling to in this situation. She expected him to draw back, in fact she'd been banking on it, but he didn't. He was focusing on her ear again, somehow using the innocuous little structure to make her feel things she didn't think humans could feel, and her mind was screaming at her to struggle while her body arced desperately into him, drawing him closer.

"If you want me to leave," he breathed, "ask me. Ask me to leave, and I shall. After all, Miss Granger, it is _impossible_ for the body to want something enough to overrule the mind…"

Oh, god. Holy Merlin. He was going to _take _her. This was him asking consent. There were so many things wrong with this she could hardly wrap her head around it—

And yet—

And yet…

"Leave, then."

It took both of them a moment to realize she'd spoken. Lucius looked at her, his lips slightly parted, and it seemed to Hermione that he was thinking fast. For the first time she took in the havoc she'd wreaked on him: there was a delicate shadow forming around one eye, a few cuts littered here and there, angry red lines and welts on his shoulder and chest—and a large purple bruise on his neck. Once again, she found herself appalled at the damage she'd inflicted in a moment of thoughtless passion.

She had some inkling, however, that the physical damage didn't hold a candle to the damage she'd just done in two words.

Eventually Lucius shut his mouth with an audible _click _of teeth. "Well, well. You _do_ enjoy being right more than anything, don't you? My leaving would prove you correct: mind over body in an even conflict… for the both of us." He sighed. "Well, then—enjoy your victory, Miss Granger, and do have a good night."

The weight on her body vanished. By the time Hermione had regained enough wits to sit up, the bedroom door was shut, and Lucius was gone.

* * *

**A/N****: I cannot believe how long this took me. I am so sorry. To anyone in the barren Internet wilderness still reading, please forgive me—I'll do my damnest to prevent it happening again.**

**If it persuades anyone to stick with me a little longer (since this was kinda a weird little chapterlet), the next chapter is nearly finished and is considerably better than the last few c:**


	14. Chapter 14

Hermione had an especially fitful night. Between replaying the strange, violent scene from last night _ad nauseam_—here and there inserting a few choice comebacks and fantasizing about the alternative routes they might've taken if she'd just kept her damn mouth shut and allowed herself to be wrong _once _(which, if she was honest with herself, absorbed most of the intervening hours)—any hopes of her sleeping until daybreak were utterly dashed. She got two hours maximum.

When she finally accepted the fact that she'd gotten all the rest she would, she dragged herself miserably out of bed and shucked off her rumpled nightclothes. She glanced at herself in the mirror and paused when she noticed the bruises on her arms in the shape of large hands, and all the very obvious marks on her neck, the crowning jewel of these being nearly two inches across and brilliantly purple.

Huffing, she grabbed up her wand and waved it furiously over every inch of her body, reciting every common healing spell she could think of—as well as a few cleansing charms. She checked herself in the mirror again and was satisfied that, at least physically, last night never happened.

The rest of the morning seemed to crawl on at a snail's pace. It had never taken her so long to get ready; she had no idea what was waiting for her outside her bedroom door and she was, admittedly, dawdling a bit. All possibilities, even the more outlandish ones, seemed equally plausible at that moment.

What she did_ not_ expect was to be the first one awake.

The apartment was dim and silent; the kitchen was empty and the only illumination came from the pale blue light creeping in through the blinds. A quick look at the clock confirmed that it was around 5 in the morning. She grimaced, but there was no going back to bed now: she'd abandoned any chance of sleeping ever again and besides, she had to find out what became of her unsolicited houseguests.

A trip into the living room confirmed that she was not alone. Belgium, at least, was still here. She was curled up on the couch with Crookshanks, the both of them breathing deep and slow in unison. Hermione shook her head; the massive dog was lying on her back with her paws sticking up in the air, and Crookshanks was coiled up on her chest, rising and falling with each of her deep breaths. It was hard not to die a little at the cuteness of it.

After a moment, Belgium cracked open an eye and stared up at Hermione as if to say, _What? You need something?_

"Go back to sleep," Hermione whispered, and her heart melted as Belgium yawned, stretched out her legs, and closed her eye again, now smiling. Hermione couldn't help it; she scratched the dog on the head, right down near the neck where she'd seen Lucius do, and Belgium's wolfish smile grew.

How had she ever disliked dogs?

* * *

It was with some grim satisfaction that Hermione laid out the finishing touches on the best breakfast she'd ever prepared. It was equal parts sweet and savory: she wasn't sure which her guests preferred, and she didn't want to give either of them any sort of angle on which to criticize her. She'd even made waffles ostentatiously with her electric waffle iron, which she'd left out on the countertop for Fergus to see, just to add a little vindication to the meal. As she garnished the last plate with a bit of parsley she wondered if Fergus would have much of an appetite after eating all of his fucking words about her ability to cook.

There was a sudden _snap _from behind her and she yelped in fright. "Well, doesn't this look lovely," Fergus trilled. He'd apparated directly into his chair and was already lying a napkin in his lap. "Rather a lot for two people and an elf, though, don't you think?"

Hermione sighed. Trust him to find _something _to pick at. "Well, I'm glad you at least recognize good cooking when you see it." She levitated the last plate—this one piled with bacon—off the counter and onto the table with the rest. "I'm guessing you've never had waffles before. They're primarily a Muggle dish."

"Actually, they were all the rage in the late 18th century, especially in the French wizarding scene," Fergus sniffed, pouring himself a coffee. "It was waffles for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Blast the infernal things… every few weeks I had to re-teach the other elves how to operate the hot irons—they all had some difficulty getting it down. You humans and your obsession with oddly shaped foods…" He clicked his tongue, but nevertheless loaded his plate with a fourth of a waffle and upended the syrup over it. Hermione smiled a little; she'd count this as a victory. "Do you have any cream for the coffee? Or sugar, for that matter? It smells burnt."

She rolled her eyes but got up to fetch the fixings anyway. When she turned back around she locked eyes with Lucius Malfoy sitting there at her dining room table and nearly dropped the milk jug.

"Oh my _god_." She clutched at her heart. "I didn't hear you come in. You startled me."

Lucius raised his eyebrows. "Good morning, Miss Granger."

Hermione's stomach lurched. She swallowed. _Act natural_. "Good morning." She waved a hand at the table. "I made breakfast."

"I see." She thought perhaps he would smile at her, but she really must've nailed him in the face much harder than she thought last night, because he looked away and effectively ended the exchange there.

She couldn't help but stare at him for as long as she dared. Once he entered the room it was as if her eyes were drawn to him automatically. No one had ever affected her quite like that, except perhaps Voldemort, although the reasons had been slightly different. Like her, Lucius had healed up all the marks he'd gotten last night, or at least patched up all the visible ones. In fact he looked as immaculate as ever, and was even wearing different set of clothes from yesterday. That made her frown.

"Did you leave last night?" she blurted without thinking.

Lucius took his sweet time mulling that one over. After what must've been a full minute he appeared to tire of watching her squirm and deigned to answer. "No."

Hermione cleared her throat. "Okay, well—I was just wondering about your clothes."

He didn't look up from his food. "What about them?"

"Well, you've changed them."

"Fergus was kind enough to fetch a few items from the manor last night for me and Belgium. We shall be adequately comfortable here for the week."

"Oh."

Lucius had found her Prophet and was now perusing the front page as he ate. He didn't look at her again as she awkwardly took her seat across from him. It was amazing how wooden everything tasted after such an innocuous little exchange.

Fergus was watching them like a hawk. A smirk was playing around his mouth, and Hermione wondered just how much he knew about what happened last night. She hoped to god he only had his speculation.

It was by far the most awkward meal Hermione had ever endured. Eventually she couldn't take the silence anymore and cleared her throat. "So, what are we supposed to do now?"

Neither man nor elf answered her. She stared at them both—Lucius, hidden behind a wall of newsprint, and Fergus stirring another dash of milk into his coffee with an air of distaste—until it became apparent neither of them intended to answer.

"Merlin's beard," Hermione muttered to herself, wiping her mouth on her napkin, setting it down hard on the table and getting up to leave, "no wonder Draco turned to drugs…"

_That _got their attention. Fergus spat a bit of coffee back into his mug and Lucius reappeared from behind the paper.

"I'm sorry?" Lucius said sharply. "I seemed to have misheard that. Would you care to repeat yourself?"

Hermione went red (she'd have to invest in a good anti-blush charm at some point) but she didn't back down. "I just thought, since we're going to be taking down the biggest criminal alliance in the country, we should go over the plan until it's perfect. But I see you two have it all figured out and don't need my help, so I'm guessing you'll be leaving soon."

Lucius clenched his jaw, but it was Fergus who responded. "Sit down, Miss Granger," he snapped, glaring at her with more dislike than usual.

She glared back at him. "I'll sit down if you two agree to stop acting like a pair of surly toddlers and actually make an effort to communicate with me. We're a team now—the three of us. We might as well start acting like one."

"We are no Golden Trio, Miss Granger," Lucius snapped. "These are no longer your glory days." He turned to Fergus. "Now may be a good time to go. Better it gets done sooner than later. But for god's sake, be _cautious_. I shall call you if you are needed."

Fergus dusted off his hands and apparated—but not before shooting Hermione a sly look that made her blood run cold.

"Wait—where's he gone to?" she demanded, pointing at Fergus' now-empty seat. "What needs to get done sooner than later? Won't we need him?"

"Not for the next week, no. Just now he has more important tasks to accomplish than doing your housework." Lucius waved his wand and the dishes vanished, replaced with a huge piece of parchment that took up the entire tabletop. Most of it was covered in writing, but there were also a number of hand-drawn portraits; Hermione recognized one of the faces as the tall, dark-haired man she'd met back in Lucius' drawing room. The rest were strangers.

"I took the liberty of compiling what I know about my associates onto this," Lucius said, gesturing at the parchment. "I've also attempted to transcribe here as much of your ludicrously convoluted plan as I could. Forgive me if I missed a few of its finer points: I was tired and did not have access to that notebook you were abusing yesterday."

Hermione scanned the parchment. "Which one of these men are in charge?"

Lucius tapped the portrait closest to the top. "They call him Raleigh." He slurred the name with the same sort of distasteful expression that Fergus had worn whilst drinking her coffee. "It may possibly be his real name, but I doubt it."

Hermione scrutinized the portrait. The man appeared to be in his mid-fifties. Dark hair and eyes. By all accounts a perfectly ordinary person. "You're sure he's in charge?"

"No. Nor am I sure you will ever have the pleasure to make his acquaintance regardless; at times he neglects to attend our board meetings. In fact, I am not even sure if that is his actual face, or if, like someone we know, he has employed the use of Polyjuice to make himself even more difficult to trace."

Hermione frowned at him. "You've used Polyjuice too. At the ribbon-cutting for the Liverpool Preschool."

"I would recommend that you avoid idle chitchat with Fergus in the future," Lucius said, his eyes still riveted on the parchment. "That elf is known to cause problems when it suits him."

"So you _weren't_ involved with the school?"

"It is neither here nor there, Miss Granger. What I do in my spare time is of no concern to you."

She glared at the fine-chiseled profile and inhaled to spit back a retort, but at the last moment she swallowed her words. Lucius looked at her, and they had another one. Another staring contest. The sort where they _really _looked at one another, directly in the eyes, longer than any two strangers ever managed.

But they weren't strangers now, she supposed. They hadn't been for a while.

"What were you going to say?" he murmured.

She scoffed. "It's neither here nor there, Mr. Malfoy."

He straightened up so fast that Hermione flinched back a little, and he closed in, moving well into her personal space—as he so often did when he meant to intimidate. She might've been getting used to his… _magnetism_, as it were, but in these moments, it was extremely difficult not to bow under those pale eyes.

She nearly flinched when he reached up towards her face, but it was only to wind a loose brown curl around his fingers, idly twining it between the middle and index, then tucking it behind her ear. Such a gesture would normally come off as affectionate—sweet, even. Had Ron done something like that to her back when they dated, it would've made her feel warm. When Lucius did it, it gave her vertigo.

"Tell me what you were going to say," he whispered. "I really am very curious."

She steeled herself. "I was going to say, Mr. Malfoy, that I actually think it does matter. Despite your opinion, we _are_ working together, and I've found that working with someone gets a lot easier the more you learn about them."

He smiled gently. "So if I'm to understand you, you're demanding that we spend some of our very limited time before the party in order to… get to know one another better? You believe this will facilitate our preparation for the upcoming task?" She scowled at him, but nodded. He leaned in, so close she felt his breath, and then closer still—surely his lips were brushing her ear. The same ear he'd lavished all his devious skill on the night before. And there was no use denying it: she was leaning into him, willing the heat of his skin closer. He smelled just as sinful as ever and it was hard not to drown in that dark, subtle aroma. Just a few more millimeters and they would touch…

Then he whispered, "I disagree."

And he pulled back, turned, and bent over the parchment again, indicating a block of text near Ink's portrait. "We should reiterate the plan and discuss potential exit strategies should things go sour. I would also like to address a few small concerns that Fergus broached last night, shortly before I put him out of the guest room."

"Right," she said, just as brisk and businesslike as him. Perhaps she was already adjusting to him; her recovery times were certainly getting shorter every time he threw her off like that. "We'll need more ingredients for Polyjuice as well. I'll get my notebook."

* * *

The next few days were interesting, to say the least. Fergus would habitually pop back around from doing god knew what to have quiet conversations with Lucius, or to take Belgium home for several hours at a time to "wrangle the peacocks." He never stayed long, and did not encourage conversation, though Hermione thought he was looking fairly smug nowadays.

Malfoy himself remained succinct, but he was, for all intents and purposes, perfectly cordial to Hermione. There were no more breaches in decorum and he'd intensified his politeness to the point where Hermione almost felt as if she were playing at politics back at the Ministry. It was certainly much easier to plan with him than it had been that first day. He was more willing to listen to her ideas and would more readily concede when they differed. When he wasn't plotting away in the kitchen with her, he'd either pull a book off one of her shelves and retreat to the guest bedroom.

Hermione was happy with the arrangement. Ecstatic. _Thrilled_. It was, after all, exactly what she'd wanted. He was no longer coming onto her. There was no more touching, no more mercurial mood swings, no more looking at her for longer than politely necessary, no more showing even the slightest ounce of emotion about anything… and that was just wonderful. And it did _not _make her so irrationally angry that she snapped one of her favorite quills or beat her pillow until the seams split. And it had no effect whatsoever on the way her libido had spiraled completely out of control, resulting in several furious—erm—_self-care_ sessions every moment she wasn't in his company. And it did not make her feel more miserable than she'd felt in easy memory. These things were _surely_ due to stress, and fatigue, and anxiety over the upcoming ordeal.

That's what she told herself, anyway.

On the day of their exploit, Hermione got up early and set about frantically making sure everything was in order. She triple-checked that the Polyjuice was ready, combed over every inch of the plan, forced herself to take a quick nap (Lucius had warned her it would be a long night) and then she gave Belgium a bath, partially out of nerves and partially because of the horrific smell that had begun to linger around the dog after a few days of sharing a couch with Crookshanks.

It was around this time—when Belgium finally won a long and hysterical tug-of-war over the loofa, escaped the tub and coated everything, including Hermione, in a few inches of suds—that Hermione realized it. In the few days Malfoy had taken up residence in her life, she'd fallen desperately in love… with his dog.

Quite opposite her master, Belgium had opened to Hermione like a flower in springtime. She'd taken to bringing Hermione her dressing gown every morning, and slipping into Hermione's bedroom every night before bed to check on things and pull the shams off her pillows. More than once Hermione had jerked awake in total darkness, startled by a fledgling nightmare, only to feel a large, furry bundle snuggle up to her in the dark—as if to reassure her all was well.

Lucius noticed their antics. If he thought anything of it, he kept it to himself.

Hermione siphoned the water off Belgium (and herself, and her bathroom, and most of the hallway) and checked the clock. Nearly time. She hadn't seen Lucius all day, which was just as well: she didn't think she could stand much more of his icy company. With less than an hour to go, she pulled on her ill-fitting outfit and drank a measured gulp of Polyjuice.

Narcissa Malfoy frowned back at her out of her vanity mirror. She looked careworn; Hermione wondered if her emotions were as obvious in her natural skin. Taking a moment to readjust to being someone completely different, Hermione styled the golden hair, applied makeup to the beautiful features and straightened the expensive clothing on the willowy body.

Perfect.

She found Lucius in the sitting room, watching the streetlamps flicker on outside the window. He was in finer clothes than usual for the occasion, and had groomed himself immaculately. He looked gorgeous, particularly from the back.

She noticed his spine stiffen as she walked in. "We should depart soon," he said, turning. "They will begin to arrive in nearly a quarter—" He stopped when he clapped eyes on her. He was startled, but only for a moment. Too quickly he'd masked it under the usual glossy coat of nonchalance. "I see you're ahead of me already."

"Yes," she said, in Narcissa's soft voice. "Shall we go, then?"

He nodded and offered her his arm. After a second's hesitation she slid her hands around it; this was the first they'd touched since the fight, and it was like a static charge hummed between the stitching of his jacket and the fine silk of her gloves. She breathed in his now-familiar scent and closed her eyes, allowing him to guide her into the abyss of apparation.

And then there were lights.

* * *

The so-called board meeting would occur, as they always did, on one of Malfoy's own properties: a stately house in the southern part of Northern Ireland. As Hermione understood it, Fergus had marshalled all the Malfoy elves there and they'd been busy with preparations for days; she knew it wasn't the only duty Lucius had the old elf doing, but every attempt she'd made to butt into his business had been met with stonewalling.

When she opened her eyes, it was to find herself standing on a stone landing overlooking a brilliantly lit, beautifully decorated courtyard. Everything seemed to glow brilliantly as if cast under stadium lights. She glanced over her shoulder at the house; they would be partying in the backyard, it seemed, but the doors had been thrown open to invite guests to fluctuate in and out if they chose. There were people mulling around, all dressed in black and white to match the monochromatic décor. Entertainers, by the looks of them; most were busy tuning their instruments, setting up equipment or stretching in preparation to do god _knew_ what later on.

Littered among the action were at least twenty elves, each in a different colored pillowcase embroidered with the Malfoy crest. Hermione spotted Fergus balanced on a large stone carving of a dragon, shouting instructions at the others through a megaphone. Francis was among those fussing over the food; he kept pulling off his glasses for polishing. Harriot was running atop a barrel, one of many being brought into the yard and opened to breathe. The Malfoys' claim to fame _was_ their exquisite wine, after all.

At the _crack _signaling Hermione and Lucius' arrival, everyone stopped what they were doing to gawk up at them. Once again, it occurred to Hermione that Narcissa and Lucius made a fantastically beautiful couple, terribly intimidating to outside eyes; she was surprised at how awful the thought made her feel. While she stood there trying to get her bearings Lucius had already disengaged from her and gone off to circulate among the entertainers. He did not glance back at her once.

After standing there like an idiot for a moment, Hermione put on her best bitch face and went off to find herself a glass. She wouldn't be drinking alcohol tonight, but it would look that way. Thank Merlin Narcissa had such a convenient-looking Polyjuice; she just had to make sure not to set her glass down or spill on anyone, and she could sustain her disguise throughout the night without raising suspicions.

Fergus made a sweeping motion with his hand and all of the elves' pillowcases changed color to white with black threading—his included. Then he jumped down off the statue and disappeared among the rabble, resurfacing only to prop up a tray of delicate glass flutes right in Hermione's path. Only one of them contained pink champagne.

"Another few minutes and we'll find out if all your scheming was for naught, _Mrs. Malfoy_," he said, bowing and giving her a truly evil smile. Hermione scoffed and took the Polyjuice, but really all she wanted to do was throw up from nerves. Lucius had gone inside; the plan dictated that she spend most of the night mingling on her own. She was regretting agreeing to that now.

Just as she was taking the first sip from her glass, a clock chimed the hour dramatically from somewhere in the bowels of the house—and the air was rent with a noise like a lightning strike as hundreds of people apparated into the courtyard at once. There was a simultaneous rumble of laughter from all the new arrivals (Hermione hadn't been the only one to nearly piss herself from surprise, after all: the staff were all shaking and clutching their hearts) and then a raucous din built up as all of the guests began to talk at once, shouting out greetings and introductions, exclaiming over the entertainers as each one got over their shock and began his or her acts, and calling for the elves to bring them food and drink.

In literally a blink of an eye, the courtyard went from lifeless to full-blown chaos, and Hermione was caught in the thick of it.

None of these people were supposed to be particularly well-acquainted with Narcissa. Lucius had warned her that his colleagues wrote up the guest lists for these things, and that most of them were buyers of their products, and out of the hundreds of people who showed, only two were at all important: Raleigh and Ink. God willing, she'd only have to talk to the latter; she and Lucius had agreed it'd be best if she avoided all other conversation. The goal now was to find Ink and "befriend" him.

She spent the better part of the next hour gravitating from one dark-haired man to another. She tried to be casual about it; it wouldn't do if Ink were watching and figured out what was going on. She didn't see Lucius in all this time, but it didn't escape her notice that, regardless of where she went, an elf was always nearby, watching. She wondered if Lucius was having them dog her—whether to keep her safe, or to make sure she didn't somehow betray him, she didn't know.

She must've combed the crowd a dozen times before one of the little creatures sidled up to her. "Madam Malfoy." She glanced down. The elf was mostly hidden under a tray of polenta but she could tell it was Fergus: no other elf could sound half so menacing, and unlike all the rest, the tips of his ears were bent all the way back, like Crookshanks' did whenever Hermione tried to sing. "Your presence has been requested in the smoking room."

"Oh. Thank you." And thank god Lucius had walked her through the blueprints of the estate earlier, because Fergus didn't stick around to show her the way.

The party was tamer this side of the house. People were knotted into small groups or intimate pairs in the window seats and between pillars, all talking in low voices. The door to the smoking room was shut and, when she tried the handle, locked, and that just about had her stymied enough to go looking for Fergus again before it snapped suddenly open, and Ink was standing there with a forbidding expression on his face. It cleared away, however, when he recognized who she was.

"Ah, Mrs. Malfoy," he said, smiling. "Such a pleasure to see you again."

She tried to smile back. She tried _not _to grimace. "Yes, it is." And then, remembering herself, she offered him a gloved hand.

He took it, turned it palm-up and leaned down to press a kiss to the soft white of her inner wrist. As he straightened she saw his eyes drop briefly over her body, lingering on her hips and the dip of her neckline. It all happened so fast that by the time she'd caught it, he was already turning away. "Lucius," he called back into the room, "it appears I've located your wife. Or rather, she located us." He stood aside and bowed her in. "Please, do come in and join us. After you."

She was not prepared for what awaited her in the smoking room. The blinds were drawn here, and the only lighting came from the fire and a few yellowy lamps with dark shades along the walls. Hermione could barely make out what was happening and had even sat down on a vacant sofa before she discovered that, right in the middle of the room, there was a knot of about six women writhing around on the carpet, all stark naked aside from some black-and-white paint, and all engaged in various sex acts.

Hermione gaped at them uncomprehendingly. Male laughter emerged from the shadows at her reaction, none of it familiar. The sofa depressed beside her and Ink spoke, his voice very close.

"Your husband has very interesting tastes in entertainment, as I'm sure you'll agree."

She picked up the message clear enough from the slight sneer in his voice. With an effort she pried her eyes off the women, tried to strain to see who else was present; on the other sofas and in various armchairs where several other men, all fixated on the mass of moaning feminine bodies. She could distinguish Lucius only because of his hair, which seemed to glow even in this dim lighting; he was sitting farthest from her and she couldn't tell where he was looking or how his expression read. The others were only shadows.

"Lucius," she called at him, trying to sound as unsurprised as she could manage. It was crucial they launched into the script as fast as possible. "I have been looking for you."

"And you have found me," he responded. She tried not to let his tone bother her; it was important that there appeared to be some rift between them, but in this setting, being spoken down at by your only ally wasn't terribly encouraging, even if it _was_ an act. "What do you want, Narcissa?"

Though she was determinedly not looking at him, Hermione could sense Ink watching the exchange; as Lucius finished she heard Ink _tsk_ quietly in disapproval.

She swallowed. "I'm feeling ill. I'd like to leave now."

"I'm rather busy at the moment."

"Well, then," she said, trying to sound wounded (it wasn't difficult), "I suppose—I suppose you'll want me to wait on you, then?"

"You do that," he growled back, gesturing at the door. "Please do it outside. Our guests are undoubtedly missing you." She still couldn't see his expression. "I shall join you shortly. _Behave._"

"Now, now, Lucius," came another voice from the figure to Lucius' immediate left. "Surely you aren't going to send her back out there to the wolves on her own? You heard her. The lady feels ill."

Lucius shifted in his seat. "I was under the impression that we were only just starting our discussion here, but if we're done…"

"Oh, we aren't done, no," the voice replied pleasantly. There was a rustle and the yellowy lamps glowed brighter; the glittering mass of sex on the carpet broke apart, and the women all stood, giggling and stroking at each other as they were, undoubtedly, paid to do. The men all became lucidly distinct as well: they each matched one of Lucius' portraits, particularly the man who had spoken. Hermione recognized him as the one called Raleigh.

"Ink," Raleigh said, "if I remember correctly you have a bit of experience with healing. Why don't you escort Mrs. Malfoy outside for some fresh air. See if you can determine the source of her discomfort."

"Certainly." Hermione felt Ink's arm wind itself around hers. He was standing rather closer than necessary to her, and vaguely she thought that he didn't _feel _like Lucius. Lucius radiated heat. Ink absorbed it.

On cue, Lucius straightened and made to stand. "That won't be necessary. I can tend to my own wife. I will return shortly—"

"As I've mentioned, Lucius," Raleigh cut him off, "our business here is not yet concluded, and I would hate for us to delay it further. It is already well overdue." He spoke gently, and the two men looked at each other for a long, measured moment. It was then Hermione noticed that all of the men, aside from Lucius, had their wands drawn—casually, of course, down at their sides or in their laps—but Lucius' walking stick was leaning on a chair many yards out of reach, his wand still in it.

Secondarily, she noticed the knife. It was a silvery spade-shaped blade like the one Bellatrix had used to kill Dobby. Raleigh was holding it in his left hand, the tip balanced idly on the armrest of his chesterfield. Hermione felt all the hairs on Narcissa's arms stand on end.

Oh god. They… were they going to kill him?

Lucius did not break eye contact with Raleigh. "Very well," he said, flicking his hand to dismiss her and Ink. As she was steered from the room, however, Lucius finally locked eyes with her. They had agreed in the planning stages to make it seem as if they were at odds, but not indifferent: it was important that Ink believe there was still some marital bliss between them to destroy. But either Lucius was a world-class actor or the look he was giving Hermione, the look of deep, terrible _longing_, was genuine.

Oh god. They were going to kill him.

* * *

"It's unfortunate you had to witness that disgraceful display. I find I can hardly contain my distaste at these sorts of things, but in the years I've worked with him I've come to expect such riffraff from Lucius. Truly abominable. But forgive me—he's your husband. I'm being insensitive."

Ink was talking, steering her to god knew where in the house, but he might as well have been barking for all the sense Hermione could make of the words. Her brain had gone numb with panic; she knew she must've looked glassy-eyed and slack-jawed but she could not, for the life of her, marshal her thoughts.

That may well have been the last time she saw Lucius alive.

It was an odd sensation, like trying to run in a nightmare. Lucius had cautioned her about the slim possibility of this happening; he'd said that, should it come to it, she ought to keep focus and go on digging up as much about Ink and the other men as possible while she had the opportunity. But she hadn't really thought about what it actually meant. The man that had consumed her life like a fire these past few months might be dying. They might be killing him right then, as she walked away down this hall arm-in-arm with one of the conspirators.

Strangely enough, it was the clock chiming that brought her back to reality. One o'clock. She took a sip of her Polyjuice cocktail, as she'd been doing on the hour, and the rush of magic down her throat seemed to ground her in the present.

She had a job to do. She couldn't think about Lucius now.

"It's always the families that suffer," Ink was saying. "I cannot imagine what you have had to go through these past few years. It must have been so stressful, with the War first and now this ugly business with the company…"

"My husband has his faults," Hermione heard Narcissa's voice say quietly. "But so do we all."

Ink regarded her. "I will be frank, Mrs. Malfoy—"

"Call me Narcissa."

That seemed to please him. "Narcissa. I've wanted to meet you for some time. I've known Lucius for many years, and Draco as well… I'll admit I was curious about you. What sort of woman you were."

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, Mr…?"

"My friends call me Ink."

She scoffed a little and withdrew her arm from his. An echo of Lucius' voice sounded in her head: _When he dodges a question, withdraw. You want to persuade him to divulge information in order to get closer to you._ There had also been an unsavory connotation to that: if Ink did loosen his tongue a little, she'd have to find some way to reward him. She'd avoid that thought for now.

Ink looked, for a split second, affronted and slightly angry. "Narcissa?"

She pretended to yield a little. "I'm sorry. I'm just… tired of masks."

His shoulders relaxed, and he moved in, his eyes locked on hers. He reached out—no doubt to reconnect their arms—but as gracefully as she could she slid away from him and turned to head out the nearest door. It led into a little stone courtyard, blissfully empty. "I need air. Thank you for escorting me, I'm sure I can look after myself here."

As predicted, her rejection only fired his engine. He followed her outside, albeit at a leisurely pace, and changed tactics a little. "I can't imagine," he said, all purring empathy. "Your husband was likely born with a mask strapped to his face."

She forced a laugh and leaned up on the stone railing. From this vantage she could see the increasingly insane revelries unfolding in the backyard. Someone was setting off fireworks; she hoped they were sober enough not to burn the house down with them. "I can see why Lucius has never invited you over for dinner. I can't imagine he and you have very many civil conversations."

"No," Ink said carefully, sidling up to her; the length of his forearm brushed hers. "He is a difficult man to work with."

Time to mix things up. "He is."

Ink seemed surprised to hear her agree—surprised and very encouraged. "I hope you don't think I'm intruding," he said, "but how long have you two been married?"

Hermione shook her head. "Decades." She heaved a sigh and turned to him, putting on a sad little smile. "Can we not talk about my husband? I can't… I don't really want to discuss him. Or my son."

Ink nodded, reaching out and taking her hands, stroking his thumbs over them in slow, soothing circles. "I can tell you're in pain," he murmured. "I see it in your eyes. It may be of little comfort to you, but I'm very glad to have met you—to have gotten the opportunity to speak with you. You seem as if you've had to be very strong for a very long time."

_What a snake, _Hermione thought coldly, but she did her best to look the part of the tired, oppressed wife of a psychopath. She offered him a smile, which he returned warmly—a warmth that did not quite reach the cool green eyes.

"Sir," a voice said from the doorway. She and Ink turned simultaneously to the elf standing there looking dead on its feet. "Sir, your company is leaving. They await you in the foyer. I was told to fetch you down for them."

Ink grimaced and turned back to her. "I must go."

Hermione let a bit of her genuine disappointment leak onto Narcissa's face. This whole conversation had led nowhere. She hadn't learned a thing—and Lucius… "Very well."

He was leaving. He was really leaving. And there was no guarantee she'd see him, Raleigh or any of the other bastards again, not if they'd actually killed… it'd all be for nothing, and Lucius…

In desperation Hermione took a few quick strides after him and grabbed at his sleeve. "Wait."

He turned around. She hesitated. What could she do? Should she abduct him? Perhaps force-feed him Veritaserum back at her flat? But looking into the highly expectant face, she realized it wouldn't require all that. No, he only needed one last, small push. "Will I… see you again? I mean I've… I've had such a nice time with you. I wish that I could… but I understand, you are all busy men, and I have no place among busy men. It was so very nice talking with you. I haven't felt as if I've properly talked to anyone in so long." She let out a vulnerable little laugh, let him go and backed off. "I'm sorry for keeping you."

He stepped into her again. "Narcissa"—he took her hand—"if you ever feel as if you're tired of being the strong one"—he slid his other hand into his pocket; Hermione tensed—"or if you ever find you need someone to talk to"—he drew out a card—"please, don't hesitate to contact me." He placed it in her palm.

Then he turned, and vanished.

* * *

The smoking room was empty when Hermione went racing back inside. The lights were all off, the fire was dead and when she whispered "Lumos!" and cast the light around she couldn't find any indication of a struggle. But then, things were fairly easy to put right with magic. She checked all the surrounding rooms. Nothing. If Lucius was still here, he wasn't on this side of the building anymore.

She hurried back towards the thick of the party, checking rooms as she went. She'd just got back into the main hall when something grabbed her around the ankle, and she was so high-strung she actually screamed and kicked at it before she realized it was an elf—a particularly old and angry elf, who did _not _take kindly to being kicked at, and in response grabbed her harder and apparated them to an upstairs hallway, out of the noise.

It was a mark of how wild the party had gotten that nobody so much as spared her a glance when she'd screamed.

"Merlin, woman," Fergus snarled, twisting a finger in his ear, "you nearly deafened me! And you'd best consider yourself very lucky your little assault on me missed—I have already pissed in twenty different cups for elf-beating tonight, but now I'm dehydrated and for the likes of you I—"

"Fergus," she cut him off breathlessly, "Lucius is gone. I can't find him anywhere. Those men—"

"I have taken him back to your flat." He looked at her grimly. "I've got to stay here but I need you to go back and tend to him best you can. I will return tomorrow morning."

"What—why don't you come back now?" she demanded. The way he was talking, it sounded as if…

"Someone has to deal with this!" He waved a furious hand at the anarchy unraveling downstairs. "They'll burn the house down and every elf inside it if this isn't contained. Now _go_, stupid girl. He needs you."

* * *

**A/N****: This episode has been brought to you by The Great Gatsby and The Sopranos. **

**I picture Raleigh as Kevin Spacey, and since we're on the subject of picturing things, I picture Narcissa as Rachel McAdams (yes I've changed it a million times, sorry lol this is for real) and while Lucius and Hermione are pretty well-depicted in the movies I do bastardize them quite a bit in my head, so I suppose there isn't a totally accurate reference for them.**

**Anyway, I thought the quickish update was warranted considering how appallingly long the last one took. If you're all getting disheartened by the amount of smut (or lack thereof), well then… you've got plenty of reason to stick around for next chapter (which is also nearly done, thank god).**

**Please please ****_please_**** leave a review! I'd be so grateful for even a single letter and I don't care if that makes me a whore c:**


	15. Chapter 15

When Hermione arrived back at her apartment she found it filled by the most horrible sound she'd ever heard. _Oh god, is that Belgium?_ She followed the dog's cries back to the guest bedroom, where she walked in on a what might as well have been a murder scene.

Lucius was lying on the guest bed, leaning back against the headboard and staring empty-eyed at the opposite wall. Blood was everywhere: on the floor, furniture, even the ceiling, as if at some point he'd been thrashing around. Fergus had divested him of all clothes aside from his pants. Along his cheek, throat and down his left arm were wide pink stripes: evidence of deep, freshly healed wounds. Belgium was standing over him, alternating between pawing him, nosing his face, and throwing back her head and making a noise somewhere between a whine and a howl. Crookshanks sat in the chair under the window craning his neck to get a better look.

"Oh _fuck!" _Hermione hurried across the room but stopped short when Belgium snarled at her. The stood over Lucius, ruff up and ears back, every one of her white teeth bared. She growled and snapped at Hermione in a clear warning.

"Bel," Hermione said, shocked. She tried to take another step, reach out for her, but Belgium rushed to the edge of the bed and lunged. It was only because her wand still happened to be in her hand that Hermione was able to get off the Stunning Spell fast enough; the dog still careened into her full-force, knocking her to the ground, but the Stunner had got her before she could rip out Hermione's throat. Hermione pushed the big furry body off her and backed away, horrified.

She then remembered she was still masquerading as Narcissa, and Belgium was trained to detect concealing magic. When Hermione had walked into the room, all Belgium had seen was a potential threat. "I'm sorry, girl," Hermione whispered, stroking the long muzzle. "You didn't understand. It's okay." Still, it was probably best to keep her Stunned until the Polyjuice wore off…

Hermione went and stood over Lucius. The sight of him stalled her brain again. He hadn't reacted throughout that whole altercation; his eyes were still focused on something in the middle-distance she couldn't see.

"Mr. Malfoy!" She grabbed his shoulder and shook him. Nothing. She waved a hand in front of his face. He didn't react at first; after a few seconds' delay his eyes wandered and he looked at her, but she was almost certain he couldn't see her. "Mr. Malfoy! _Lucius!_ Can you hear me?" No response; he went on staring. She recited the first handful of healing spells that came to mind. Nothing. Lucius remained unresponsive. "Oh my god, what did they do to you?"

She checked his pulse and found it racing a million miles an hour. She put a hand on his forehead; he was on fire but there wasn't a trace of sweat on him. "Shit." She paced back and forth in front of the bed, waving her hands around in a panic. By accident she managed to make it rain a little indoors, and that gave her a brainwave. He was hot. He needed to cool down.

She'd have to draw a bath. The elves would be so proud.

With a swish and a flick, Lucius rose several inches off the bed; steadying him with her hands, she pulled him into the bathroom and threw a spell at the tub. It immediately filled to the brim with cold water.

"You'll thank me later," she whispered. Then she dunked him completely under the surface.

He came up spluttering: a good sign. "Lucius?" She knelt beside the tub on the soaking floor and grabbed either side of his face to force him to look at her. His eyes had dilated so huge they appeared black; he stared at her uncomprehendingly. "Lucius, can you hear me?"

Slowly, he opened his mouth. "Narcissa?"

For a second Hermione couldn't figure out why he'd said it. Then she glanced at her reflection in the faucet and remembered. "No," she told him, "it's me. Hermione. I'm using the Polyjuice, remember?"

But he'd already looked away, down at himself in the tub of water tinged pink by blood. "Why do I have my pants on in the tub?"

"That's not important. Lucius, if you can hear me, if you understand me, you need to tell me what they did to you."

His eyes wandered, and his head rolled a little on his neck; Hermione thought of a child having fever dreams. "It's cold in here," he whispered. "I need to get out." He tried to push himself up.

And she pushed him right back down again. "Stay there, Lucius, you've got a temperature!" She conjured a glass of water and tried to tilt it down his throat. "Drink something—"

Suddenly he looked angry, and he slapped the glass out of her hand. "Fuck off, Narcissa." He turned away.

"Lucius!" She snapped her fingers in front of his nose, drawing his attention back to her. "Focus! I'm _not_ Narcissa, I'm Hermione, and you need to tell me what's happening to you because I can't help you unless I know what's wrong!"

"What's wrong?" he repeated through gritted teeth. "What's wrong? What's wrong is that you fucked him, Narcissa. You _fucked _him. And not only did you fuck him, you ensured that I saw. _You ensured that I saw you do it."_

Hermione stared at him. "Lucius—"

"Life is a pit," he said quietly. He seemed to have forgotten that she was there. "You dare to trust, you give someone everything, everything… you give them _everything_, and they come into your home and they take until you are broken, and they try to kill everyone you love, or they fuck some random bastard in a bed you shared for years, or they abuse themselves to spite you, or they die, and leave you to brave the minefield alone."

Hermione didn't have any idea what he was talking about now. One thing was certain: he didn't have a clue where he was, or whom he was talking _to_.

"Mr. Malfoy," she said gently, placing a hand on his forearm. He glanced down at it, a line between his eyebrows; then up at her, his eyes dark and feral. "Do you remember what happened tonight?"

For a long time it seemed he wouldn't answer. "I remember," he said at last. "I remember Raleigh. He said something about Draco. He cut me. I remember letting him cut me…" His lip curled. "With a knife. A _knife_, of all things… what a fucking imbecile… he drew it over my face and arm. I let him. He did not faze me. He's like the Dark Lord, in a way… he reminds me of him a little, sometimes… it's best if you don't react. But one of the men—he came from behind. He had a canister of Doxie. I remember… He upended it over me." He sighed. "I don't remember after that."

Hermione let out a long breath. Doxie Dust. It must've gotten in the wounds. Lucius wasn't injured or brain damaged—he was _high_. They'd drugged him.

He closed his eyes and leaned back in the tub. "I suppose it's not so cold," he said quietly, before slipping under the surface with his lips parted. A few bubbles rose up, then the surface went still.

"Okay!" Hermione plunged her arms into the water up to her elbows and dragged him up again. "You've lost your bath privileges." He blinked slowly at her, mystified. From what Hermione understood about Doxie, the side effects (including _death_, for god's sake) tended to be the same for each user but the high was very different. She therefore had very little idea of what to expect from him. "Come on, let's get you dried off."

Lucius rose docilely enough from the tub and allowed Hermione to dry him. He didn't speak as she steered him back into the guest bedroom—but after taking one look at the mess, and feeling Lucius begin to collapse on her, she bypassed it and steered him across her flat into her own bedroom. It was only after she'd gotten him to lie down that he spoke again.

"Hermione."

"Yes?" she said distractedly, trying to think of what to do next. He didn't respond, so she shrugged it off. She needed to do some research on Doxie but she didn't want to leave him alone. There was one thing she _did_ know, though: taken directly in the blood, Doxie was extraordinarily dangerous; the odds of an overdose increased dramatically. And she didn't know how much he'd actually gotten in him. Someone needed to watch him through the night. "Lucius, could you call an elf—?"

But he wasn't listening anymore. Something was happening to him: his eyes had slipped closed and his breathing had picked up, and he was writhing slowly in the bedclothes, curling into a fetal position, clenching his fists and flexing every muscle in his body. "Fucking _hell_," he whispered, "make it _stop."_

The look of agony on his face was so intense that Hermione didn't think; she crawled into bed beside him, curling up against his back and slinging her arms around him. She could feel his fluttering heartbeat this way, and every one of his labored breaths; after a long moment he relaxed, and she was hopeful that perhaps the worst had passed—but then he seized up again and gasped in pain, and her eyes filled with tears.

On it went, well into the night. He writhed and gasped through whatever it was the Doxie was making him feel, and Hermione held him through it; as the hours passed she found herself comforting him more, stroking his hair and murmuring in his ear. This, at first, did not help at all, but midway through the fifth hour of his bad trip he began to relax, leaning back into her, his reactions milder as each wave passed over him.

She wasn't sure if the drug was abating, or he was impacted by the fact that the Polyjuice had worn off and she was, once again, Hermione Granger. She didn't know what to think if it was the latter.

Around the seventh hour she'd had enough. Dawn had long since broken and the Doxie still had its claws in him; he was weak in her arms, and it must've felt like he was on the brink of death.

"We've got to get you to St. Mungo's." She hadn't expected him to answer and had already begun to pull away when he responded.

"No." His voice was shattered. His eyes were shut, shadowed, his face glowing with sweat, but his mouth was set in the same stubborn line it reverted to whenever he intended to win an argument. The lacerations that Raleigh had left on him were nearly gone now, faded to the same shade of delicate pink as Narcissa's Polyjuice. He rolled onto his other side and Hermione found herself encased in his arms. His grip was very loose, weak, but she found herself unable to pull free.

"Lucius," she said breathily. He held on tighter. "I'm not—"

"I know you aren't Narcissa, Miss Granger," he growled. "I'm still high but I'm no longer _that_ high. Anyway, I've come to see that I could never hold her like this again."

She really shouldn't have asked. It wasn't her place, especially considering he wasn't in his right mind. But true to form, Hermione simply couldn't stop herself. "What happened, Lucius?"

He answered immediately, almost as if he'd been expecting the question. "Narcissa asked for a separation after the War. I refused. I still loved her and I couldn't imagine letting her go—it was an idea I simply would not entertain. I thought she was just being stubborn to punish me for my failure to keep the family safe. We'd been together so long that I… anyway, she started to withdraw from me however she could: refusing to go out, to eat dinner in the same room, even to sleep in the same bed. She stopped having sex with me. I didn't care. I still refused a separation. Each time she tried to pull away, I held on tighter.

"So one day, I got an owl. Narcissa had been doing the rounds, visiting each estate to make sure all was as it should be; she claimed the house on the shore had been broken into and robbed. So I arrived at Shorecliff and walked in on my wife fucking someone else in the master bedroom." He paused. "She got her separation. And when she asked for a divorce a month later, she got that too, immediately. I might have been murderously angry… I might have hated her, perhaps even killed her and her lover right there… if I didn't know, in the pit of my soul, that I brought it upon myself. I didn't listen to her. I knew she felt trapped and I didn't care. I didn't want to believe she was no longer in love with me. So she was forced to convince me otherwise. She knew she was risking her life doing so… but she did it anyway. Because _death_ would have been preferable to staying in a marriage with me."

Hermione lay there staring into his tense face: the slight grimace on his mouth, the furrow in his brow. She didn't know what to say. His candid analysis of what was undoubtedly one of the worst memories of his life, his willingness to accept responsibility for it, even despite the gross betrayal… it made her heart ache.

"I did the same to Draco," he went on. It seemed he couldn't stop; Hermione knew this was likely the first time he'd talked about this to anyone, and she doubted he would've been doing it if not for the drugs. Still, she leaned in to catch every crooning word. "I did not give him the support or comfort he needed after the War, quite the opposite actually, but I would not let him out of my sights regardless. I couldn't allow him to wander off and make matters worse, not after the disgrace of our defeat—my only thought was damage control, was keeping the family_ together_. He must have felt very pressured, very alone… So he took up drugs, the most _dangerous_ of drugs, because he knew it would result in a rift between us. Because life like _this_"—he spat the word, indicating himself, his own state of inebriation—"dying slowly under the influence… _this_ is preferable to being around me."

"No." Hermione had heard enough. Lucius' eyes slitted open: the pupils were still round and huge, but his gaze was focused. "Lucius, you can't live in the past. What Narcissa and Draco did—they might've been pushed but they were wrong in their own ways. You _can't _hold yourself responsible for all of it. There were different things they could've done—the choices they made are not yours to own. You can't let yourself wallow in it. It's unhealthy."

He scoffed a little. "Some would say it was fair penance."

"Well some would also say being left-handed gives you cancer," Hermione sniffed. "You've done some—some distasteful things. But _acknowledging_ that is half the battle. You've got to forgive yourself."

"Not everyone is worthy of forgiveness."

"What are you talking about? Of _course_ everyone—"

"What about the Dark Lord? Or Raleigh, for that matter? Or Bellatrix, or Grayback—"

"You don't seriously put yourself on the same level—"

"I _am_ on the same level, Miss Granger." His burning eyes ratcheted onto hers. "What do you believe the term _Death Eater _means? I have done things you could not even stomach to hear about. I have stood by and watched things you cannot begin to imagine. I _am_ on the same level—in some ways, I am worse."

"No, you're not," Hermione snapped. "None of those other people _cared_ that what they did was wrong. You _do_."

"I cannot describe to you how little that matters."

"It does, Lucius!" She could feel her frustration mounting exponentially. It would've been very satisfying to shake him just then. "Going on suffering forever is no help to anyone. It's not going to fix your relationship with Draco, it's not going to solve the issue of Raleigh, and it's not any help to me, either."

"You?" He cast his gaze over her face. "Why you? What am I to you?"

"You're…" She paused, and he looked at her skeptically. "I don't… I don't really know. But it doesn't help me."

He sighed heavily and started to turn away from her; his arms slipped off her and she felt a sudden chill. "Lucius…"

"What?" He didn't snap at her; he sounded drained, defeated.

Did she dare? She let her eyes rove over the aquiline profile, the smooth skin, flushed as if with fever. Her heart ached again. _Oh, what the hell__._ "I _do_ care about you."

Languidly, he turned back to face her, looking into her eyes with an unreadable expression in his own. She remembered him in the smoking room as she left, staring at her as if she were the last good thing he would ever see. Had he been thinking about Narcissa, she wondered? Or had he looked past her disguise and seen _her?_

"Why?" he asked quietly.

She wasn't sure how to answer. He was so very broken. His life was a complete mess, the exact opposite of hers. He was dangerous, a proven liar and manipulator. He'd driven his own family away and had a long history of cruelty and malice. He was complicated and emotionally damaged. He was many years older than her. He couldn't change. He was, for all intents and purposes, completely unlovable.

But then she thought of Belgium, and Fergus, and Francis and Harriot, and the way he'd carried her down the cliff to watch the drakes in flight, the solarium full of flowers, the grooming session in the bathtub—the way he'd kissed her. The sound of his voice when he was happy, or thoughtful. The softness that sometimes entered his eyes, the warmth he'd let slip when he was feeling safe. He was mesmerizing—poignant and intense and, in his own way, beautiful.

He was human. Unfixable, tenacious, volatile, brilliant, remorseful, vicious and sweet. He might have been unlovable… but that didn't mean he couldn't be loved.

Rather than answering, Hermione leaned in and pressed her lips against his. He moved into her slowly, kissing her in the same sure, methodical way he'd first kissed the false Narcissa back in Shorecliff. He hadn't known who he was kissing then. He'd been playing a game, toying with a stranger for his own amusement. Was he doing the same thing here? She thought about the last few days, the chilliness of his demeanor. He was drugged now. He couldn't technically give consent, she couldn't say for sure if he actually wanted this or if he was just dying for some kind of contact. His lips were rough against hers and it wasn't long before he was pulling her closer, deeper, extending the kiss until they were completely wrapped around each other, all hands and lips and legs and teeth.

It took next to no effort to remove her dress. The garment was loose on her anyway, and even drugged, Lucius had no problems with the bindings. The rest of her clothes followed, and now all that separated them were Lucius' pants. Hermione swore skin-on-skin contact had never felt so delectably, deliciously good; she wanted to rub every inch of herself all over him. He was hot, still on fire from the Doxie, and just as firm and velvety smooth as she remembered; he really did have beautiful skin. Every contour of her body fit so insanely well into his that she didn't know if she could ever really let go of him—he felt so, so good. Though his touches were a little weaker than they had been in the past, there still wasn't anything tender about the way he clasped her to him; his fingers dug into her, just skirting the edge of painful, and he ground the sharp lines of his pelvis against her hips hard enough to make her gasp a little at the friction. He began to writhe and she wondered if he was battling another wave of Doxie, but no, he was just sliding out of his boxers; in moments they were both exposed, and he was pressing hard into her lower back with his hand, forcing her against him, and thrusting up against her, his cock hard and heavy between them.

It crossed her mind that she ought to stop him. There was something morally wrong about this—there always was, perpetually. But she'd kissed him for a reason, and despite it all, she wanted this. She dug her fingers into his shoulders and pulled down, dragging the tips hard down his back. He hummed and arched up into her, his hips flexing again, his cock scoring a hot, damp line up her stomach. She thought about it inside her. How it would feel. He was broader than any man she'd seen; she thought about how he would tear her apart, given his way. Her sex ached and fluttered helplessly; she felt her hips arc up, trying to position him, trying to make it happen.

_Mind over body__. _But there was no reason why she shouldn't, other than the fact that he was high off his ass and probably felt as if someone had run him under a steamroller. He was getting impatient; their kiss was getting brutal, his fingers winding knots in her hair, the press of his lips giving way to teeth and tongue. He nipped her particularly hard on her lower lip and she gasped and looked at him. He was smiling a dark, indolent smile, tonguing a pointed canine as he did when he was particularly turned on, sliding closer, pushing, trying to force her onto her back.

She made a snap decision before her spine hit the mattress; she pushed back, and in a moment _she_ was on _him_, straddling his abdomen, her sex hovering an inch above his navel. He looked surprised, and then he scoffed and grabbed her hips, trying to propel her down onto him. She shoved his hands away.

"Stop."

He blinked his drug-dilated eyes at her. "Excuse me?"

"Stop," she insisted. "Let _me_ do this." She placed a hand on his chest, fingers splayed over his jumping heart. "Please."

He almost-but-not-quite rolled his eyes, but nevertheless leaned back in the pillows and dropped his hands docilely to his sides, palms up. For the first time, Hermione noticed the scar on the pale expanse of his inner arm, no longer black as it was during the War. She reached out inquisitively and ran her fingers over the pink ridges, the serpentine pattern; he flinched, and when she glanced back at him she was met with a convoluted expression: guarded and tired and, beneath it all, so very sad.

_Are you going to leave now, too?_ she could practically hear him ask. _What will you do, to get away from me?_

Her heart broke a little for him. With her fingers still on the Mark, she leaned down and pressed a kiss to the hollow of his throat, then lower, down on his sternum. Slowly, she drew her fingers up his arm, soft enough to tickle (and she did notice him wriggling just a little), over the tense ball of his shoulder and down, down to the jut of his hip. She heard him sigh as she descended—whether in satisfaction or resignation, she couldn't tell.

He was so hard when she finally wrapped her fingers around him she could hardly lift his cock away from his abdomen. She felt his hands still in her hair, applying just the barest of pressure on the back of her skull, coaxing her down. She ran his cock through the tight ring of her fingers, pulling the flesh taut over the core, and then, with a glance up into his eyes, she slid the large dark head of him into her mouth, and sucked.

Whatever impatience he might've felt before was obviously dispelled now. His head lolled, his lips parted, his hands fisted in the sheets and his eyes rolled back in his head, just as hazy as they had been last night when she'd found him. He let out an audible breath and leaned back, thrusting shallowly into her mouth as she began to draw him deeper inside. Hermione had very little practice with this, but she reasoned that, if men liked tightness and friction (and she'd read in a magazine somewhere that they did), well, she'd keep it as tight and fast as she could—it had worked before, why not now? It also helped somewhat that she was actually _relishing_ the act. Before in her life, it had been something of a chore; now every cell in her was alight and feeding off whatever reaction she could draw from him.

She liked the taste of him, fresh and salty—the feel of him, thick and straining—but most of all she liked watching him unravel under her ministrations. She fluttered her tongue over the vee of his cock and he shuddered; she dipped into the slit at the top and he gasped, bucking up into her. She spent quite a bit of time just torturously playing with him: he'd done it to her, it was about time he got a taste of his own medicine. He realized what she was doing soon enough, and no doubt in an attempt to spite her, he pressed his lips together and tried to muffle his sounds. Still, as she progressed to swallowing him as deep as she could and dragging him back up through the firm ring of her lips, he couldn't contain himself entirely. Every so often, when she'd pull him just right, he'd moan, low in his throat and thick with pleasure; it sounded almost like humming, and Hermione couldn't believe how hot she was getting from it. Each one sent a wave of fire down her back, through her belly and directly to her neglected sex. Not for the first time since boarding this crazy train with him she wished to god she wasn't so damn ethical: he was so thick and so hard it made her sob a little inside to know she wouldn't be enjoying him in quite the way she wanted. Not just yet, anyway.

Soon enough the moans stopped, too, and he quieted, sitting up now, his hands winding tighter in her hair. He was trying to pull her off, tugging at her, but she ignored him; she kept on working her mouth over his shaft, faster now, and he eventually gave up trying and sank back into the pillows, sighing that enigmatic sigh.

She thought perhaps his trying to pull her off was a sign that he was about to come, and he hadn't wanted to come in her mouth. After a few minutes, however, she wondered if it hadn't been him wanting to fuck her before he got too close. Either way, he was being distressingly quiet now—not a dull quiet, no, it was intense and focused, like he was trying to solve some complex equation in his head.

Perhaps it was time to change things up.

She'd been working his lower shaft with one hand; now she brought the other up to hold the heavy sac at the base of his cock, applying as much pressure as she dared. _That _reignited his interest. The hard thighs on either side of her stiffened, and he hummed again, appreciatively. His thrusts began to feel a little less shallow. She recalled a bit of male anatomy she'd once looked over in a medical textbook, and purely out of academic curiosity, she reached a finger behind his balls and pressed against the stretch of skin between them and his anus; sure enough, she felt the telling stiffness of his inner-member, and immediately his cock twitched on her tongue and the grip in her hair grew painful.

"Oh." She could've laughed at how much of a statement it was. He was so matter-of-fact about it, like she'd told him he'd written the wrong date on a letter. He began to writhe, much as he had done the night prior, though she didn't think he wanted the prompting sensations to stop this time around. Then—"Oh, _yes_," as if to mimic her words when their positions had been reversed, his voice reduced to a low, breathy moan.

"Oh. Yes. Oh, fuck… _fuck_—" He spat the last word, nearly angrily, and Hermione felt his cock jerk, and she knew he was coming. The thought made her moan, which in turn made him buck, and then he gasped, "Hermione," as if in warning just a millisecond before he spilled everything into her mouth in several long, burning pulses that had them both moaning and moving in clumsy unison. She wasn't prepared for the amount of come he pumped into her; long after she expected it he was still coming, and she tried to draw back but his hands were both in her hair, keeping her down. His seed escaped the corners of her mouth and rolled down the length of him in pearly ropes; the sight of it made her sex spasm and her hips curve down towards him—all futile. She'd made her decision.

When at last his shuddering gasps died away, she was able to draw back a little, far enough to lock eyes with him. He had an expression on his face someplace between awe and curiosity; she knew what he was wondering. With her lips still enclosed around his cock, she swallowed—he could feel it. Another shudder when through him and he leaned back—only to glance down again in surprise as she ran her tongue over his slackening cock, gathering up the semen that had escaped her. This she swallowed, too, her eyes never leaving his. She saw his brows dip, and he looked at her like he'd never seen anything quite like her.

She hadn't known why she'd done it. She'd never done anything like it before.

"God," he whispered. Strong hands enclosed her upper arms, dragging her up his body; he kissed her throat, tried to roll on her, force a hand towards the sopping mess between her legs—but she slid away from him, off the bed.

"I've got to fix the guestroom," she told him. He stared at her, his pupils huge, though from the drugs or the orgasm she couldn't say anymore. She leaned in and smoothed a hand through his silky hair, pressing the other to his shoulder, pushing him down onto the mattress. "You seem stable now. Sleep—sleep the rest of the Doxie off and come out when you're feeling better. I'll be just down the hall."

He was looking at her so incredulously, she might as well have begun babbling nonsense at him. Then his eyes narrowed, and he drew away, curling onto his other side, towards the wall. She stood there watching him a moment—that feeling, was it regret? But she supposed the decision was made now, and really, the man didn't have room to complain; she'd put his needs above hers, hadn't she?

Now that she thought about it, she wasn't sure.

Without a backwards glance she walked out the door and shut it behind her.

* * *

**A/N: Omg. How dare she blow him and _leave_. Lucius isn't satisfied with your adolescent antics, girl. He shan't take this nonsense lying down (metaphorically, of course). You all can damn well expect some swift retribution c;**

**Man, these reviews lately—you guys are fucking awesome. Keep 'em coming and I'll keep 'em cumming! Next chapter's well on its way ;)**


	16. Chapter 16

The guestroom was finally back to its original state of irreproachability. Hermione cast a Rennervate over Belgium, but the dog remained fast asleep, drained by the emotional roller-coaster of yesterday.

"You and me both." Hermione levitated the poor beast onto the freshly made guest bed to sleep it off. Crookshanks leapt up to join her, and the two dozed just as companionably as ever. They really were an odd match—but not, she supposed, the oddest in the apartment…

Hermione went back into the living room with a book and a mug of tea. She supposed she'd have to write Belby now, make sure he knew she was still alive… she had more than a reasonable amount of accumulated vacation time: perhaps now was the time to dip into it. All this would eventually go towards furthering her career, wouldn't it? The card Ink had given her was lying on the table in the kitchen; she'd have to sit down with Lucius to decide what exactly they should do with it. It wasn't a business card, as she'd originally thought. Every inch of it was black and she couldn't find a single bit of text on it. Perhaps he'd given her a blank by accident, damn him.

She'd set her mug down and was just opening her book when Lucius came into the room. He'd cleaned up—his hair was still damp—but it seemed he'd forgotten to put on clothes because all he wore was a towel around his waist and a look of such intensity it made her recoil a bit inside. She checked his eyes: normal enough pupils. The Doxie must've worn off.

"Lucius?" She stood up, stepped nervously towards him. He didn't respond. "What—?"

"I think," he said, dragging the words out into a long, languid drawl, "you and I should address this elephant in the room, Miss Granger. Because frankly I've had enough."

And he stalked towards her, slow and predatory, undoing his towel and tossing it carelessly aside as he neared. She gasped aloud and took a staggering step back, shocked voiceless by the sudden attack. To an outsider she was sure her reaction must've looked exaggerated, comical even, but Lucius didn't flinch, didn't even seem to notice. She tried not to stare at him as she continued to back away from his menacing advance, but he was so damn aesthetically pleasing, the lines of him so gorgeously drawn it was impossible not to gawk a little. He moved up upon her and grabbed her by the forearms, shoving her back, down, down onto the couch. Her legs were knocked out from under her and she yelped a little as she fell, Lucius on top of her.

And then, slowly, so slowly it was mesmerizing, he lowered his face to hers. She couldn't look anywhere but his eyes—dark gray, witheringly intense, so deep she felt a swoop of vertigo, closer and closer. A thought flitted across her mind of the magical boas in India, how they'd hypnotize villagers with just their eyes, and subdue them with a life-crushing embrace and a single bite. She was about to be subdued, she knew it—he was locking her in, she couldn't look away, there was no escape.

So close now—instinctively she flitted her tongue over her lips in preparation for the absolute bliss that she'd come to associate with his kiss, but at the last moment he gave her an indolent smirk, those eyes bright with amusement, and moved aside, down, nuzzling into the crook of her neck, dragging those demon's lips in a feather-light arc to her shoulder. The soft touch ignited every tender nerve-ending in her body. She gasped again, but it was a very different sound now, and followed up almost immediately by a whimper as he nipped the gentle sloping of her neck at the base near her shoulder.

"Do you want this?" Was it really a question? She couldn't tell if he was asking consent or talking dirty, the low rumble of seduction seemed perpetually in his voice—but either way, as he whispered the words into her collarbone, all of his lovely, hypnotic movements stopped, every bit of him froze, and that was a tragedy. While her brain tried to make sense of his words (as they didn't register right away) she noticed for the first time that he was absolutely draped over her, nearly all of his weight pressing her into the couch; he was heavy, but it was such a delicious weight she hardly even noticed. His need was evident; a blush rose into her already red cheeks as she noticed his length pressed against her inner-thigh. He'd somehow settled between her legs without her even being aware. Really, those eyes—they shouldn't be allowed.

She swallowed and looked back into them, felt another great swooping of vertigo, and said in a voice that was more a puff of air than an actual word, "Yes."

The eyes sharpened.

He ripped her blouse up over her head in such a sudden, violent movement that she gasped in shock again, for a moment frightened—then dizzy with lust. He dealt with her trousers in similar fashion, abrading her with his roughness; her bra and knickers followed suit, he barely glanced at them; then, to her surprise, he slid back off her and looked down at her face, her body, studying her properly, proprietarily, drinking her in with slow semicircles of his cold, gray eyes.

She reddened even more under his gaze, tried to cover herself but it was halfhearted; she had no idea why she was feeling so absurdly shy now, he'd seen her naked before. But not like this. She could've fooled herself that he hadn't actually looked earlier, but not this time around. When her hands tried to slide in front of her breasts and sex, he glared at her, reached in and forced them away again, so brutally that she didn't try a second time.

He leaned in, and with his fingertips, traced the lines of her face, her lips, her jaw, over her closed eyes (which snapped open again as soon as his touch had passed), down her neck and over the hollow of her throat, around the curve of her breasts and the aching peaks of her nipples; he ran his hands down over her ribs (she juddered a little) and the slope of her waist, lower, lower over her hips and thighs, finally coming to rest on either side of her knees.

"Good god, but aren't you beautiful," he murmured, his assessment of her complete. "Just… _exquisite_. You have no idea what you do to me."

Well, she had _some_ idea, if his raging erection was anything to judge off, but it was his praise that had her nearly weeping: he'd spoken with such heartfelt sincerity, such soft hunger in his eyes, it reduced her to a puddle of schmaltz on the couch covers. They locked gazes, and he leaned in to kiss her—never gently, always with a sharp touch of teeth and a coarseness that left her reeling when he drew back. Nevertheless, it was done for her. They both knew it.

His sentimentality didn't last long. With a growl he grabbed her legs and hiked them up around his waist, yanking her in, angling her body up so her sex was exposed to him, wet and blushing. He gazed down at it, and with a slight frown that she found bizarrely endearing, reached in with a hand and slid his fingers between her lips, parting her, sliding up to circle her clitoris.

She'd been wrong. She thought that perhaps Narcissa's body had been more sexually receptive than hers—like perhaps her nerves were more sensitive or something. But that was definitely not true. As Lucius ran the pad of his thumb over Hermione's most sensitive spot, she knew it was just _him_ that drew such dizzying reactions out of her, whether she was in Narcissa's skin or her own. In fact, she'd dare to say it was even more intense this way, because now she was Hermione Granger, and he was looking at _her_ body, lavishing attention on _her_ flesh with such amorous focus. He was hard for _her_. And it was making her brain spin in her skull.

"Lucius," she panted. His eyes darted up at her, minnow-like, then back down; he understood the plea, and holy Merlin on cocaine, he was going to oblige.

With another yank on her lower half, he was lined up with her, the head of his cock nestling into the wet fire between her legs; she made a noise like a baby bird and her eyes shot up to his face, but he was zeroed in on the point of contact like his life depended on it. He rocked his hips, nudging her apart—and—fuck—he'd pressed in, the dark crown of his cock had vanished into her—and then he was suddenly leaning down, grabbing the back of her neck and thrusting once, twice, ten times, driving fully into her unyielding body while she howled and writhed against him. In no time at all the room was filled with the sharp slap of his pelvis on her loins, her buttocks against his thighs: he was totally encapsulated. She'd taken every inch of him and she had no idea where to put it all.

Jesus, it hurt. It hurt _badly_—almost as bad as the loss of her virginity, but unlike then, it also felt lusciously, deliriously _good_. The ache of his violent intrusion mingled in heady harmony with a ringing pleasure so strong, she realized this couldn't possibly last very long, at least not for her. No doubt the pain came from her not having gotten any in god knew how long, that and the previous dick she'd had in her wasn't anything like the one tearing her apart now. He was so thick he was killing her. She knew she was making quite a bit of noise, all of it incoherent; Lucius, for his part, didn't seem to be listening to her cries of mingled dismay and delight. In fact he seemed to have become quite deaf since he buried himself to the hilt in her. He'd tilted his head back and exhaled at the ceiling, delirious as he crashed against her, unfazed by the drag of her nails down his arms, unmoved by her wailing. She locked her legs around him and writhed, half of her desperately trying to adjust while the other half struggled to match his pace. He didn't slow and he didn't acknowledge her frantic movements, just went on hewing her open as if he'd been born especially for the task and nothing in the world was going to deter him.

Tears had just slipped free of her lashes, overwhelmed tears—she'd never been taken so hard, it had never been like this, it was too much, wasn't it? But no thought of stopping him even crossed her mind; that would be an apocalypse, surely the end of the world. When Lucius reached in to the point of their juncture and began massaging her clit in tight, fast circles, the tone of Hermione's cries changed almost immediately. Boiling pleasure now far overpowered the pain, coursing in powerful waves through her veins, and suddenly it was more than she could handle. The sensations waging war on her sex was enough to make her cling to him as if for dear life—no more scrabbling, no more trying to adjust, he was now her only life-line in this storm and all she could do was hold on. The slide of his cock grew potently sweet between her thighs, abetting he burn he drew from her clit. She wrapped her legs tighter around his waist and pulled him, if possible, closer, arching into him, moaning and gasping and rocking into each forceful shove of his hips.

He was looking at her now, scanning her face; he looked beautiful, an archangel, glowing and vibrant, his lips parted, his face all smooth loose pleasure; evidently he got some kind of cue from her own expression because without warning he hoisted her legs up over his shoulders, tugged her further under him, bent her in half and started to rut her in earnest. She screamed and scratched at his back, crosshatching the canvas of his skin in pinks and—as he pistoned harder and began to strike something extrasensory inside her—reds. She could feel _everything_. God, to have a mirror mounted on the ceiling now—

Lucius, hitherto silent aside from a few deep sighs, arched his neck and moaned. She'd never heard a man sound more superbly pleased about anything. His lunges slowed and, as their movements became more deliberate, more languid and sensual, in the same moment they both shuddered, as if hit with a chill. Hermione could finally see why people became addicted to sex; it used to mystify her. No, here, with this man, she understood at last what it meant to forget the line between your own skin and someone else's. They were practically tailored for each other. It felt so insanely good—so _sweet_. Even though he was laying into her more slowly, every shift of his cock still sent pleasure radiating from her sex in glittering ripples.

But in no time she was squirming again, trying to get him to increase the tempo. He resisted—stalling when she dug her heels into his buttocks and tried to force him. Her cunt was singing, trilling but the pleasure had hit a torturous plateau from this _pace_—was he doing it on purpose? She tried to focus on his expression—it was hard to process any other sensory input outside of her thighs at the moment—and when she saw he was smirking she _knew_.

"Lucius!"

He breathed a quiet, sinister laugh at her admonishment. "I detect some distress, Miss Granger."

_"Is this some kind of game to you?"_ she snarled up at him. He only laughed—a full, melodious laugh she might've otherwise enjoyed if it hadn't been at her expense, and he went on plunging away at her at his own fucking leisure until she was nearly crying from the glorious agony of it. He was getting a kick out of her suffering; she could feel him twitching inside her with every other thrust and she knew he must've been closing in on his own orgasm.

"Oh, fuck you," she groaned. A glow of sweat had broken on both their bodies, easing the blazing friction between them; the place of their joining was a hot mess and Hermione could feel her arousal sluicing down her buttocks, painting her inner thighs, slicking up the ridges of his hipbones. She couldn't remember ever being so ridiculously wet—

"Very well," he breathed back, and with a rough motion that had her stomach turning somersaults, he'd reversed them, rolling onto his back and yanking her up so she was on top. It was so sudden and jarring that he nearly slipped out, and she nearly fell right off the couch. He steadied her with a reassuring hand, looking at her expectantly; it was extraordinarily strange, being above him, looking down on the supremely arrogant face that normally had several inches on her. He didn't look terribly arrogant now. No, lying there like that with a pink blush in his finely carved cheekbones and damp tendrils of pale hair splayed around him, he looked somehow more human than ever. When she'd gone on gawking for a few seconds too long, he purred with a lilt of amusement, "Well? Go on then. Fuck me."

His tone niggled her a bit, and she gave him a vindictive squeeze, dragging herself off him and then pistoning back down, once, coarsely, her hands splayed on his chest. He let out a little gasp and his eyes rolled slightly in their sockets, and for a second he looked wonderstruck, and she realized then that they may not have been on such uneven footing after all. This felt just as good to _him _as it did to her. She supposed it should've been obvious before, but having finally realized it, she felt a great upwelling of confidence, empowerment—they were equals, she was a match for him. So she rode him, and by god, he _loved _it.

Hermione wasn't usually a fan of being on top. She'd always found it cumbersome and had never derived much pleasure from it—but at that point she'd given up trying to compare her prior knowledge about sex to whatever the hell Lucius did to her. As far as she was concerned, this was a completely different act. Those brutally hot hands splayed over her hipbones, gripping her tight as she rolled on his cock; they slid up her body, between her bouncing breasts, pressing on her, urging her to lean back; she acquiesced to the shift in position, moving her hands from the firmness of his chest to his thighs; as she arched her back, Lucius increased the tempo of his counterthrusts, moving in perfect discordance to her own, and as he was prone to doing, the man struck gold: Hermione broke the strangled silence with a full-bodied cry of ecstasy as the length of his cock stroked some glorious place inside of her, continuously, again and again, the frisson mounting with each pounding lurch of his hips, and she couldn't keep quiet, the neighbors were likely to hear, but nothing had ever concerned her less—

When she came, her entire body seemed to experience it all at once; a full, sweeping plunge of _everything_. She cried out again, choked and strangled; the air seemed to have been wrung from her. For some unidentifiable amount of time—perhaps only a few seconds, perhaps a day or two—she became so absorbed in the thundering heat of her release that she didn't notice Lucius grabbing her chin and forcing her to look down at him as she came; she was aware only of the rigid length of cock still pounding in and out of her clenching sex in faster, harder cycles, until his hands were on her hips again pressing her down on him with enough strength to bruise, and he followed her into oblivion. She'd never felt anything quite so delicious as him twitching inside her while she came down off her coital high—and his gasping, groaning reaction as he did it? To die for.

When the last judder of his orgasm died off, a calm settled on them, thick and intoxicating. They remained in position, blinking, like they'd both been hit by a train and were too stunned in the aftermath to react. Hermione finally settled herself down on his chest, overcome with sudden exhaustion, and his arms came around her almost reverently; he rolled so that they lay facing each other on the couch, their noses an inch apart, swapping breath, touching everywhere. As she returned from the glorious place he'd flung her, a little reality settled in, and with it, a most unwelcome rush of anxiety.

Merlin's balls. She'd just had sex with Lucius Malfoy. _Phenomenal_ sex. But while she'd been a blissful blank slate all throughout, there were now a million and one things jostling to the fore of her brain, like a murder of crows descending on a carcass. Malfoy was the very _last _person she should be shacking up with—and shacking up was the very last activity she should've been pursuing at a time like this! All the virulent seduction in the world hadn't made him any more right for her than before. He was still a criminal, still a bigot and his life was still an unnavigable rat's nest. He was still older, still abhorred by her friends, unsuitable for any sort of long-term commitment—she nearly laughed at the thought. But Hermione had never exactly dabbled much in "casual sex." She thought suddenly about tomorrow, or next week, or after they'd sent Raleigh and Ink and the whole lot of them in prison—would Lucius pretend this never happened? Would he treat her with the same frostiness as before? Could he possibly still hate her? And in the end, would he just up and leave, goodbye, good riddance?

Logical as ever, her brain presented her with the answer: yes, that would be the only way, the only thing that made sense. And how could she possibly handle that? He'd just _ruined_ her. Given her a taste of what her body could do, of what she could experience—and now he was going to take it away.

Lucius' eyes had closed, but they reopened now and focused on her, all drowsiness gone, as if he could detect her sharp downward spiral in the shift of her breath. She couldn't bear to look into those eyes now. As far as she was concerned he was practically already a traitor. She opened her mouth, partially to ask him to move so she could get up—and found his lips on hers.

At first she resisted, hounded by her doubts. But something changed. Something about this kiss was different. There were a lot of unsaid things behind it; she could feel them stirring just out of reach, just behind the veil of his eyes, which were, like hers, still partly opened as their mouths moved together. Perhaps he couldn't speak his mind frankly here, so open and exposed in front of her, without the buffer of Polyjuice or Doxie or even clothing. Perhaps he was trying to do so now. So she gave in a little, closing her eyes, and he drug her back beneath the surface, deep into himself.

Yes, this was different. This was sincere and vulnerable and real—_reassuring_—a glimpse of him she rarely saw. His hands were moving on her in deferential strokes, somehow more intimate than sexual, clutching tenderly, pulling her close. She touched him back, running fingers tactilely over his velveteen skin, tracing the lines she'd raised on his back in the throes of lust.

She could've wept. The babble in her mind slowly quieted, replaced now by something small and fragile and even more terrible in its own way.

_Oh, you're a cruel man, Lucius Malfoy,_ she thought hazily, smiling despite herself against this lips. _How dare you give me hope._

* * *

"So when you said we should 'address this elephant in the room,' you _weren't_ talking about your… part… were you?"

A ringing silence hung in the air. Hermione almost regretted speaking as soon as she had. They'd been lying together, kissing, massaging, and quite frankly _snuggling_ when you got right down to it; it was so bizarre to see Lucius being _this_ affectionate, or looking at her with _that _much warmth, though even in this he wasn't terribly maudlin: he'd surprise her with a bite or a rough repositioning of their bodies every now and again, his eyes going steely, predatory, and in those moments she was reminded that she wasn't playing with a kitten. She found that she liked it. There was something so delicious about being intimate with such an intimidating figure; it was intoxicating. She'd gotten so drunk off it, in fact, she'd gone and blurted the first funny thought that had occurred to her. She'd said it without even pausing to consider how he'd react.

Damn her bloody mouth.

Lucius, who had been nibbling a tingling line up the ridge of her ear, paused, and looked at her in such disbelief she didn't know whether to laugh at his expression or die of embarrassment. Then _he _laughed—so suddenly it surprised her. It was soft laughter, more incredulous than anything, but it grew in strength when he took in her expression of mingled fear and embarrassment. The sound was infectious; in no time Hermione found herself giggling right along with him, burying her face against his chest. She could feel the catharsis—the shared relief.

"Oh dear," he said, his throaty voice so deliciously tinged with mirth that she instinctively snuggled closer, "_What _do you think of me? Really. I hadn't initially, but now I'm going to say yes. That is exactly what I meant." He stretched against her, rolling his broad shoulders, and then made to pull away. Hermione reached for her wand and cast a quick cleansing charm on them, both having still borne the unmistakable signs of a thorough sexing. But as she made to return it to the side table, movement caught the corner of her eye. She spun around and had to stifle a scream.

Belgium was sitting in the mouth of the hall, staring at Hermione and her master with a haunted look in her blue eyes. Crookshanks sat beside her, glaring at them with irritable disapproval. At Hermione's reaction, Lucius had stiffened and turned around sharply, too, but relaxed at the sight of the animals. He even snorted out soft laughter.

"Away, Belgium," he ordered, flicking his fingers. The dog obeyed, but she was still hollow-eyed as she moved off, like a traumatized war veteran. Crookshanks huffed and sauntered off after her, clearly put out by all their inappropriate behavior.

"Oh my god," Hermione breathed. "They—they weren't _watching_, were they?"

Lucius chuckled again. "I didn't notice them at the door when we turned over. But I could perform an Obliviate, to be sure?" When she continued to look mortified, he tutted impatiently. "Oh come now Miss Granger, I'm _sure _the animals, who walk around naked and do their business in the streets, will forgive us our indiscretion. Don't fret so much. It depresses the immune system."

She couldn't help but match his wry smirk. She stretched, and her smile broadened despite herself when he drew her extended body in for a last embrace, pecking a kiss to her breast.

Then he rose and gathered up his towel, and she her clothes, recovering themselves; almost immediately after slinging it back around his hips he returned to her on the couch and settled near her—their familiarity now tacit. She supposed she should've found it strange, but she didn't. It felt natural, sitting there with him, leaning into him even, his arm around her, his hand at her hip. It made no sense. But it felt so good.

"Tell me about last night," he purred. She glanced at him; he was serious now, and under the seriousness she could detect just a hair of concern. "I hope you were safe? I had ordered an elf to keep close watch on you but in the chaos of last night, I'm not sure if it was done. Ink is an unsavory character. I would not prefer it if you were ever alone with him."

"It's necessary," Hermione said. "If we're going to succeed he's got to let his guard down a little, and for that, we've got to be alone." She sighed and reached for her abandoned tea. It was cold now.

"Did he do anything to you?"

She nearly shivered at the low menace in his voice. "We had a conversation, nothing else, I was almost afraid the whole night would be a waste because he wouldn't let anything slip, but then he gave me this"—she waved her wand, summoning the card and handing it to him—"and said I should be in touch. I thought it was a business card but it's not. Do you know what it is?"

Lucius scowled at it, turning it in his hands. Eventually he nodded. "It's a catcalling card. You may use it to send messages, and when activated on both ends, it can act as a Portkey." He tossed it down on the coffee table and sighed, leaning back into the couch, drawing her with him. "It is enough. That will be our ticket into Ink's private life—or rather, your ticket."

His eyes darkened. "Their deliberate attack on me is worrisome. They are getting restless and that is not good—I had not anticipated their acting so boldly against me so early. It must be because Draco is becoming even more impressionable. I don't know if they will call another meeting soon, but if they do, it may be to kill me—_unless _they lose Draco. They need one of us in order to hold the company and maintain their front." He looked at her, solemn. "We have to capture him. Bring him someplace safe, make him disappear. With him out of the picture, they will be forced to keep me alive—and that will bide us time enough for you to ingrain yourself with Ink. But we must act quickly. After last night, we will not have so much leisure time to plan—and Draco will not come quietly."

* * *

**A/N****: Holy god. How long has it been? _Too long._ I feel terribly guilty about how freaking _long _this update took. There's a million and one excuses I could give, but instead of doing that I'll just apologize and beg for reviews. This was kind of a big chapter for our little duo! I know I'm terrible at responding to reviews individually but just know that each one warms the cockles of my heart. The deep cockles, all of them. And lookit—nearly to 200! Holy fuck I think I'd cry.  
**

**As ever, please stay with me! Thank you everyone who gave me a well-deserved kick in the pants: it got this chapter out! I _will _finish this story I swear! (And I know you've been hurt in the past baby but this time will be different, I promise.)**


	17. Chapter 17

"After last night, we will not have so much leisure time to plan—and Draco will not come quietly."

No sooner had the words left Lucius' mouth than the sitting room filled with the sound of apparition. Hermione started violently, clutching her heart; Lucius stood and faced the archway to the kitchen from whence the sound came, and even though he was wandless his body fell into a slight fighting stance, as if he might tackle an intruder in his towel. Hermione felt a strange upwelling of gratitude and amusement at the sight (and a little pang of lust, too, which was really unavoidable with all that lovely flesh in front of her, some of it bearing her own scratch-marks).

"Fergus?" he called.

The elf answered immediately. "So sorry to intrude, Master Malfoy, but reality must be dealt with at some point." He paused. "May I come in?"

Lucius clicked his tongue impatiently, his body relaxing. "Of course, you fool, why wouldn't—" but he stopped abruptly when the elf came inching around the corner, once again wearing his usual gold pillowcase, and also a look of such supreme smugness it was borderline inhuman.

"I see you've recovered from the Doxie," he lilted. "Good! But then I had all the confidence in the _world _that Miss Granger"—his large eyes found her, the bright purple irises glinting at her in the most unpleasant way—"would be able to handle the situation nicely in my absence."

Hermione had the intense, creeping sensation that not only did Fergus know _exactly_ what they'd done, he may have even—oh Merlin no_—_it was horrific enough that the _animals _might have—

"Not a word," Lucius snapped, holding up a finger to stop him. He seemed much less at ease about the possibility of Fergus having got a glimpse of them than the dog and cat; Hermione could almost sense the increase in blood pressure as he contained a few violent impulses at the idea. She wondered if it was out of respect for Fergus, or perhaps deference for _her _presence or even fear of Fergus' retribution that kept him from kicking the elf right there.

Fergus straightened up and cleared his throat. "Very well," he said, suddenly businesslike, and Hermione couldn't have been more grateful for his return to austerity, "I have come to inform you that ten elves have been taken off their normal work schedules to remain at the Irish manse to clean up. Some heathen released Fiendfyre in a top-floor lavatory this morning, around four o'clock. The entire place was engulfed. There was no loss of life thanks to Francis, who happened to notice the spread of the spell and coordinated an evacuation; nearly everyone had passed out in the courtyard and we were able to disapparate the stragglers out of harm's way, but in the process Francis and a few others was burned rather badly. The damage to the property is phenomenal; likely it will be some decades before we are able to rebuild on the same ground. I have reassigned Vergil to the Manor at Wiltshire for the time being; as he was the elf originally assigned to the house that is now in cinders, there will be little else for him to do for a long time." Fergus scowled. "An unfruitful night overall. There remains a few scum strewn about unconscious on the grounds. I didn't think to ask the elves to be gentle with them."

"The whole lot of them may find themselves asleep across train tracks, for all I care," Lucius snarled, his normally lacquered voice rough with anger. "Is Francis all right? Were the injured elves given immediate medical attention?" Fergus nodded. "Good. See that they do not work until they are fully recovered. I know they will try. Fiendfyre does terrible damage to the skin and nerves. I do not want them to overexert themselves and worsen it."

"Francis is most disturbed about being replaced."

"He is not replaced," Lucius said, waving a hand. "He cannot be—let him know that. Do not reassign him rooms at the manor, he is to remain there. I do not want him to feel demoted for this. Introduce him to the idea of a vacation, god knows he deserves it after the debacle last night. And the new elf—"

"Vergil will be an adequate short-term replacement," Fergus said, his lips twisting in slight disapproval, "but he has some work to do on his accent. Still hasn't mastered human-speak. I may just make him a groundskeep and send him back to Ireland once Francis is back on his feet."

"Do not rush him back to work," Lucius admonished, turning around and pacing distractedly back into the sitting room. Hermione, who had gasped in horror at the news and then been raptly watching the entire exchange, noticed the worry lines creasing his face, saw that he was genuinely upset, distressed even, that his elves had been harmed in his absence. A glow lit itself directly in the center of her chest. "And do not allow _him _to rush back to work. I want him and the others on strict orders to rest for the next two weeks, minimum. Then I'd like some honest answers about pain level; I know they'll try to lie about it. See to it they get some compensation—as it's a sticky subject and they're all prone to crying whenever I bring it up, I'll allow you to handle it. If there were some way I could compensate them in a way they would actually _like_, without gold—"

"You could let them go back to work immediately, burns and all," Fergus said wryly.

Lucius sighed, stressed. "Gold it is. But if I catch them trying to redeposit it back into my accounts again I shall have words with them." Lucius sat himself in the armchair, heaving a sigh. "Damn Raleigh to the blackest pit in hell."

Fergus' expression, of possible, grew even more somber. "They will kill you, Master Malfoy. You cannot go back to them if they call. You must flee. I shall see to your family and your elves. Your life is not worth the risk."

Lucius scowled at him. "You and I both know that will never be an option."

The elf's ears—perpetually set back and high in straitlaced propriety—drooped, and he looked at Lucius with the sort of grim, sad expression of a man watching his son march off to war. Hermione wondered how often he'd worn that same expression in the past. Likely often.

Lucius went on, "It just so happens that Miss Granger and I have determined the next course of action."

Fergus glanced at her again, and she saw a tiny flicker of the smugness he'd worn when he first came in. "Oh? And are these details I really need to know?"

Lucius grit his teeth and ignored the jab. "We will capture Draco."

Fergus sighed deeply, looking neither impressed nor surprised. "A novel concept. Have you progressed to the actual 'how' of the matter? I should like to know it."

"Can't you just surprise him and apparate him here?" Hermione asked him, speaking for the first time. Man and elf glanced at her with such similar expressions of wry amusement that she nearly laughed.

"Have you ever attempted to disapparate with someone who was adamantly trying _not _to go with you, Miss Granger?" Lucius asked.

Hermione thought. "No… I guess not."

"An impossibility," Fergus announced. "We would both be spliced asunder."

"So we have to convince him to come?"

"It seems so," Lucius sighed. "I have thought of an idea that may—"

There was a knock at the door.

Everyone froze. Lucius glanced at Hermione, frowning, his eyes wide; Hermione looked back in equal confusion and shock. The knock sounded again, more insistent; Fergus was the first to move, tiptoeing over to the window and gently brushing the curtains aside a hair's breadth, peering out for a fraction of a second. He spun back around, his face drawn, and hissed, "It's Harry Potter and a million others!"

"Hermione?" came the muffled call, along with more pounding. It was indeed Harry's voice. "Hermione, I know you're in there, I can hear the telly!"

"Come on, let us in, we've brought lunch for you!" came Luna's musical voice. "Even Neville made something!"

"Not sure what, though," added another male voice, one that made Hermione's stomach drop into her toes: Ron. "We could use your help identifying it."

"Hey!" Neville admonished to attendant chuckles. There was an infantile squeal that could only be James. Harry had brought the whole damn party.

"Go!" Hermione mouthed, leaping to her feet and shoving Lucius over in the armchair. "Go go go!" she breathed, nearly crying as she pushed him.

He looked annoyed as he got up, grabbing her wrist in one hand and her wand in the other, giving her a firm push towards the door. "Answer them," he hissed, tossing her wand over. "And fix your hair!"

"Just a minute," she called, and she could've winced at the warble in her voice. Oh god, her sex hair. Oh _god_—she probably looked so obvious, Lucius had savaged her so brutally, she probably had swollen lips and bite marks everywhere—frantically she cast all the glamour charms she could remember on herself, and, waving her hands wildly at Fergus (who ducked away, looking harassed), she flicked her wand at the television, which plugged itself back in and switched on just as she opened the door.

There were five people and a baby on her doorstep—Harry, Ginny, James, Ron, Neville and Luna—all of them clutching tinfoiled dishes and plates (excluding James of course) and all of them beaming. Hermione watched as their happy expressions all faltered comically in the same moment when they'd gotten a look at her.

"You look terrible," said Luna pensively, the only one who looked entirely unfazed by it. "Harry heard at work that you'd been sick for a while. We came over to cheer you up."

"Oh," Hermione gushed, trying her damnest to look pleased rather than horrified, "Oh my—oh my god, you lot! I'm so… surprised and—and pleased—oh wow, yes—there's absolutely nothing wrong with this! It's just"—she squeezed out, breathless, crowding them on the doorstep—"just that, well, I'm still under the weather and I don't want you to catch anything, especially not little Jamesy there—"

"Catch food poisoning?" Harry said, deadpan.

"Oh no it's, uuh, the doctor said it's something else," Hermione invented, trying very hard not to look at Ron and think about how Lucius had just plowed her on the same couch where they'd used to kiss, _Lucius fucking Malfoy_, "they're running some tests, I should get some answers back soon—"

"But it's from eating seafood, right?" Harry persisted. "So it's not really transferable, is it? I mean, unless you throw up on us?"

"We have the mail," Neville added, holding up a large, dirty wad of envelopes and newsprint. "We aren't afraid to hold it hostage, either."

"Come _on_, 'Mione," Ron groaned, "we'll be fine, just let us in already, I'm starving!"

They were starting to push past her. Harry was somehow already in. Never in her life had Hermione ever been so resentful of the familiarity of her social circle. She knew they would not normally have come over unannounced like this unless they thought there was something going on with her, something bad, like perhaps she was depressed or had secretly become an alcoholic; she knew they were acting more out of deep concern than anything. And really, it wasn't unfounded: she hadn't been to work in a while, she'd vanished without warning, and overall her life had stagnated pretty spectacularly. Likely they all thought she was on a steep downward spiral and were trying to catch her. It was sweet, really, and she might've found it touching if it hadn't been so god-damned badly timed. "Guys, I really don't—"

"Nothing helps you get back on your feet like a big lively lunch! Or so mum says," Ginny intoned brightly, navigating her large belly past Hermione, but not quickly enough to prevent James grabbing a handful of Hermione's hair. "Oh, sorry—he's got this fascination with hair now—just give him a minute, he'll let go."

"Gwah!" James added, tugging happily on his prize (with far more force than should've been possible for a baby).

"Aaah—" Hermione was dragged bodily back into her flat; Ron, Neville and Luna followed. The door shut with a final sort of snap on Hermione's personal hell.

"It looks different in here," Luna said, her large eyes scanning the walls. She breathed deep. "It smells different, too. Have you redecorated?"

"No—I mean yes, sort of—spring cleaning and all, I figured while I'm out of work I should be doing something useful—" Hermione was desperately trying to accept everyone's greeting hugs and kisses while gingerly attempting to free herself from her child captor, who was still insisting on dragging her around by the head.

"I didn't know you knew German, Hermione," said Harry, frowning at the telly.

Hermione peered over her shoulder (the best she could do under James' control). She must've flipped the channels by accident at some point, or perhaps Fergus had messed with the set while he was dismantling everything, because there was some foreign film rolling on the screen without any captions.

"Oh, you know me," Hermione said, forcing herself to be chipper, "I like to learn all sorts of new things all the time! And German's such an interesting language, don't you think?"

"I think it's Russian, actually," Neville said, eyeing the television. "Yeah, that's definitely Russain." He and Harry turned to her, frowning.

"Oh!" Hermione said, her voice arcing out of control, "Well, I guess I'm pretty hopeless with languages then!" She forced a crazy laugh. "Better stick to English! It's one of the most widely used languages, did you know?!"

They were all looking at her. James gave another mighty tug on her hair, making her wince and shoot him a resentful look, but Ginny didn't seem to notice; she took James and, by extension, Hermione back into the kitchen, where Harry set about enlarging Hermione's dining table to accommodate the seven of them.

Dishes were set down and uncovered; James finally bored of tormenting Hermione and released her; and Ginny conjured up a few more chairs and a high-seat for the baby. Hermione was forced to accept that she would indeed be having a large social lunch, and there wasn't a thing she could do about it. Working on autopilot, she pulled out tableware and set places for everyone while feverishly scanning the room for some giveaway of her secret life. Nothing was immediately apparent; hopefully her guests would stop being quite so perceptive with full bellies.

Everyone loaded their plates, poured themselves a bit of Ginny's famous lemonade and settled right into the meal, all seemingly without noticing their hostess' mounting panic.

"Hermione," Ginny said, pausing with a baby spoon full of mash halfway towards Jame's mouth, "what happened there?" She nodded, brows furrowed, at something above Hermione's head.

Hermione almost upended her drink in her haste to spin around. It took her less than a second to spot what Ginny was looking at: the covering had been removed on one of the kitchen lights, its bulb broken, and a half-melted candle was sticking out of the dome of broken glass. _God damn you, Fergus._

"Oh—oh that?" Hermione forced a hysterical laugh. "Oh that's nothing. It's nothing. Um, yeah, the bulb just blew up, like, _poof!"_ She made a wild exploding gesture with her fingers. Everyone started a little. "It was the strangest thing! And um, I put the candle there because I couldn't—I was too sick to get a spare bulb. And I was out of spares here. So. That's what happened."

Everyone was staring at her. She blushed scarlet and tried to eat some crisps and look nonchalant, but then Luna said, "I noticed another bulb in the hall like that," and Hermione choked.

"Yeah," she said hoarsely, coughing, trying to swallow while Neville patted her on the back with some concern, "yeah, it was the strangest thing—there was a big power surge, I guess, you know it happens sometimes in the Muggle world, I'll have to call the electric company and complain, they're really irresponsible allowing one this strong to happen, I mean, it's a fire hazard—"

"Probably even more so with a candle in the socket," Harry said, his eyebrows furrowing slowly.

Hermione gulped. "Yes, well, I need to see, don't I? The candles are temporary. And I—I like my lighting to be consistent. It helps. With reading."

She saw Harry and Ron exchange looks, Harry's eyebrows raised, Ron's packed mouth hanging open mid-chew; she tried not to let her casual veneer slip, kept smiling around at everyone, willing them to accept the lie, even though she realized she must've looked insane. Perhaps she was—actually, that was a much better explanation than what was really going on. She contemplated going with a "Hermione's finally cracked" cover story until she realized they'd invariably commit her, and that would mean hanging Lucius out to dry.

And she knew, despite everything, that she couldn't do that. Not now. Not after everything.

Her guests eventually shrugged it off and went back to eating.

"How've you been lately, Hermione?" Ginny asked after a few moments of quiet. "We haven't heard from you in ages." She was speaking in the sort of determinedly casual voice you'd use with someone who'd been recently disfigured in a terrible accident, but was trying to get back to normality. Hermione almost winced.

"Oh, you know," Hermione said, trying to wave away the question, but it actually made matters far worse: Ginny laid down her silverware and reached over, placing her hand over Hermione's, holding her tight.

"We're all here for you, you know that, right?" Ginny said urgently, nodding around at everyone, who all nodded back (Ron a little out of synch, being so engrossed with his food to cotton on right away). "Anything that's going on—you know you can tell us, don't you?"

"Yeah, Hermione," Harry insisted, "we're your friends. You could always talk to us."

"We won't judge you," Luna added, smiling serenely. "Not even if you were growing goomdrops in your bathtub."

"I might judge you for that," Neville muttered, and they all chuckled a little.

Hermione's heart broke. She looked around at them, all the intent, open faces. They all cared about her so much. And she was lying to them. She was hiding the biggest secret of her life from them and all they wanted to do was help her. Could they accept what she'd been doing? Would they still feel so adamantly about helping if they'd known that she was harboring—and had _slept_ with—an honest-to-god gangster and trafficker, one that had done so much harm to them in the past? Lucius had slipped Ginny that diary. He'd kept Luna incarcerated in his cellar for months. He'd hounded all of them through the Department of Mysteries and beyond. Hermione wanted badly to believe they would listen to her about how he wasn't all that, how he was more now, different. How tragic and beautiful he was. They would understand, surely? She was still Hermione, after all—still their Hermione?

Everything was balanced on the tip of her tongue, threatening to spill—

"Agag!" James screamed, pointing (his fat little fist still clinging to a few loose brown hairs he'd managed to rip out of Hermione's scalp).

Everyone turned. Belgium was standing there in the doorway, her nose twitching, peering at all the new faces.

A load of collective breaths were released. "Hermione!" Harry said, grinning, "I didn't know you got a dog!"

"So that's why you were reading that book awhile ago!" Ginny laughed. "I didn't even know you liked dogs!"

"Oh cool!" Ron said through a mouthful of potato salad, scraping back his chair and getting up, "And it's a real dog too, not one of those tiny yappy ones!" He dusted his hands off on his trousers and reached for Belgium, making to stroke her head. "I'd always wished I had a dog but you know mum, she says they don't have proper wizarding feeling—rubbish, obviously—c'mere boy!"

Belgium was looking scandalized; her head was reared back, her ears flat on her skull, and as Ron's fingers threatened to muss her fur she bared her teeth and let loose a bone-chilling snarl.

"Ron!" Hermione jumped up; Harry and Neville, who'd been halfway out of their seats to join Ron, both froze, looking alarmed. Belgium snapped her jaws at Ron's fingers and he jumped back, aghast. "Ron—Ron sit back down, she's not used to strangers!"

Hermione rushed over and wrapped her arms around Belgium's neck, scratching the soft ruff. She felt the dog calm somewhat in her grasp, but the pale eyes stayed on Ron as he stumbled back to the table. "She's a rescue," Hermione tried to explain while attempting to tug her back into the hall, "she's been through a lot and she still needs to be sociali—ugh!"

Belgium moved forward, dragging Hermione with her; the dog seemed to have decided that all of the guests were, if not repugnant, then at least nonthreatening, so she promptly waltzed into the room and climbed right up to the table, sitting her furry rump down in Hermione's vacant seat, dragging Hermione with her as if she weighed no more than a doll.

Everyone scooted an inch or two back. "She's uh, she seems pretty powerful," Harry said uneasily, his hand in his pocket, no doubt wrapped around his wand. Belgium had her snout in Hermione's glass and was lapping delightedly at the lemonade while Hermione heaved on her collar, trying to drag her down.

"Yes," Hermione puffed, "she's very—very willful!" She tried to laugh off her dismay as Belgium set about snapping up her pulled pork sandwich. "Oh no—no, bad dog! Bad Bel! No, get down, Bel, that's a very bad girl—"

"Her name's Bel, then?" Neville said, trying to sound conversational while he leaned so far away from her in his chair that he was nearly falling off.

"Her tag says Belgium," Luna hummed, totally unperturbed that there was a possibly violent animal sitting and eating at the table with her. "That's a much better name, I think."

"Well it _is _Belgium, I just call her Bel sometimes!" Hermione snapped, having reached the end of her rope. She slid her hand deliberately over the golden plaque on Belgium's collar to hide any more incriminating evidence and, with all of her might, heaved the dog down off the chair. At last, after giving Hermione's plate one last lick, and sending Ron a last loathsome glance across the condiments, Belgium allowed Hermione to steer her out of the room and back into the hall.

Hermione turned the corner and nearly ran over Fergus, who was waiting just out of sight; he didn't spare her a glance, just seized Belgium's collar and proceeded to tug her the rest of the way into the guest bedroom and slam the door behind them.

Hermione gave herself a second in the hall to collect herself. She felt close to tears, and in fact allowed a few to escape before pulling herself together and reentering the room.

They'd all been murmuring, but once she was back a sudden hush fell. Everybody looked disturbed.

"Sorry," she said, and she didn't have it in her to pretend anymore, just let her voice come out as ragged and exhausted as it wanted to. "She's a handful."

"That's one way to put it," Ron snapped. He looked none too pleased about nearly having his hand bitten off. "What are you doing keeping an animal like that in here? That's not a dog you can have in an apartment!"

_Well, so much for 'real dog,'_ Hermione thought blandly. "She was just frightened, Ron!" she snapped back at him.

"She does seem a little… high-energy, Hermione," Ginny said with a small tilt of disapproval, her hand laid protectively on James' head.

"An unsocialized husky at that age?" Neville muttered, his brows knit. "I donno, Hermione… it's not really our business"—he glanced around—"but with your job being so demanding and all… seems a bit… inappropriate, to be honest."

"Hermione," Harry said, with the air of trying to sound tactful, although he too looked somewhat critical, half-glancing at James, "does this apartment even _allow _dogs? I know you mentioned how it was hard even getting Crookshanks approved."

"And what does Crookshanks think of that thing, anyway?" Ron added sharply. Clearly his mind was on the whole Scabbers, aka Peter Pettigrew, incident. "He isn't getting younger you know, I'd've thought you'd be spending your time caring for _him_. That dodgy thing probably chases him around all night!"

Hermione looked around at them all. Suddenly she couldn't help it. She burst into tears.

How had she allowed herself to believe, for even one second, that they would accept her secret? If this was their reaction to _Belgium_, how on earth would they have reacted to the larger, far more dangerous creature in her home had she dared reveal him? No… there would be no reconciling the two fissured halves of her life. She could have her friends on one side, and on the other? Danger, fear, mystery… desire. They could not exist together.

Only Luna had remained silent, looking across at her with that slight natural smile on her mouth, her eyes remarkably clear. Just before the tears Hermione locked gazes with her, only for a moment, and Luna's smile deepened, rueful, apologetic, not at all amused or critical. It stilled Hermione's soul just a little, but did not make the crushing truth any easier to swallow.

Eventually, Hermione knew she would have to choose.

* * *

A few minutes later Hermione was in the sitting room with everyone gathered close by, tea things laid out on the coffee table, one of her hands in Ginny's lap, the other in Luna's.

As soon as she'd started crying, her friends had leapt into action, almost as if they'd been expecting a breakdown and had an emergency plan in place for it. Hands had grasped her, steering her out, someone (likely Ron) had brewed up some of Hermione's favorite Rooibos and they'd all grouped around her in a grand show of solidarity, words of comfort and apology being murmured at her from all angles. She hardly noticed any of it.

"I—thank you," she hiccoughed, taking the handkerchief someone was brandishing on her left, "I'm just so—things have been—" She combed her brain. "It's Crookshanks," she ground out. "He's been very sick. And he's just so old. I think he's—he might be—" She gave herself back over to quiet sobs, which in reality weren't fake, though none of the people present really knew what they were for.

Everybody made soft noises of dismay; Ginny's hand tightened on hers. There were more pats on her back, more words of comfort, Luna was stroking her hair. Hermione felt a swoop of guilt, but banished it immediately: she had no option but to lie. She couldn't tell them the truth. She couldn't.

"Oh Hermione," Ginny said sadly, "why didn't you tell us?"

"I just—I didn't want to say it aloud," Hermione coughed. "I kept hoping he'd just get better! I've just been spending time with him, and Belgium just sort of… fell into my lap. And she's been such a handful… I've just been really overwhelmed."

"Well, I could keep Crookshanks for a little while," Neville offered. "We've got a few plants back in Greenhouse Six that're supposed to be really good for cats, and there's all that open space on the grounds for him to roam—"

"No, no," Hermione said quickly, "I couldn't bear to part from him, not now. I really do appreciate the offer though." She forced out a watery smile at him.

"I could see if they've got anything for kneazle hybrids at the Magical Menagerie," Ginny offered. "Here, let me take a look at him, just so I could describe his symptoms to the attendant, maybe they could help."

"Oh—well—he's resting just now, I really just let him have his quiet during the day, I don't like to wake him up, it seems to stress him."

"He's—well I mean, Hermione, he's really ancient," Ron said with a grimace. "He's been looking pretty bad for ages. It could just be his time, you know. To die."

"Thanks, Ron," Hermione said flatly, whilst everyone shot him scandalized looks.

"We all were sort of wondering what was going on," Harry said quickly, trying to smooth over the sticky moment. "We worry about you. You seemed pretty unhappy last time I saw you—what with your assignment dealing with the Malfoys not going so good and all. You looked ready to snap."

The casual way Harry dropped the name threw Hermione for a loop. She stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, not hearing the rest of the sentence after "the Malfoys;" her heartbeat had risen directly into her throat and there it remained, filling her head with its frantic rhythm.

Eventually she realized she was supposed to give him some kind of answer and moved her shoulders in a feeble shrug.

They all stayed for another twenty minutes or so, talking about Crookshanks, then about Hogwarts and the happier past; the conversation ambled from there and Hermione couldn't have been more grateful: lying had put a sharp pain in her chest that seemed to be worsening the more she did it.

"I really am so grateful you guys came," she said eventually, cutting across Ron's retelling of the night Sirius dragged him under the Whomping Willow, "but I'm pretty knackered from all the… emotions. I think I might just take a nap."

"Sounds like a good idea," Ginny said, nodding at Harry. "James is due for his nap as well."

"Maybe—I donno—maybe one of us should stay the night?" Ron said casually. "Just to lend you a little more support?"

"I could," Luna announced, and Ron shot her a little sideways glare. She smiled serenely at Hermione, oblivious (or perhaps not, it really was difficult to tell with her). "I could show you the bowtruckles Rolf photographed this past autumn, they were knitting. Or we could practice mermish, mine's getting a little rusty."

Hermione wanted to jump out of her skin. "No, I couldn't ask it, Luna, thank you, that really is so kind but it won't be necessary."

As the lot of them trekked out the door bearing away their dirty crockery, James fussing, Ginny promising to come around another weekend, Neville offering to lend her his book on cat-centric herbs, she waved each of them off with a feeling like lead in her gut. She'd betrayed all of them, her good friends—she'd lied to their faces. It almost brought her back to tears except she knew they'd all turn around and come back inside if she broke down again.

Luna was the last to leave. "It was wonderful seeing you again, Hermione," she trilled, pulling Hermione into a surprisingly tight embrace. "Even when you were crying."

Hermione laughed wearily. "It was so good to see you again, too. I've missed you. We'll have to catch up properly soon."

As she reached for the doorhandle, Luna added in her absent way, "You know, he plays piano really beautifully, and the violin. I used to listen to him some nights through a vent, it was comforting. But I think he only does it when he's sad. You should ask him."

Hermione stared at her, nonplussed. "Who? Rolf?"

Luna laughed. "No, silly. Lucius Malfoy."

There was a long beat of silence. Luna was looking at her, smiling slightly, and Hermione wondered suddenly if she was a Legillimens, or a Seer or some other arcane thing with powers beyond comprehension. Finally she brought herself to speak. "How did you know?"

"It smells like him in here." She quirked her head, thoughtful. "Maybe it's his cologne. Or something in his clothes, or hair. It's a good smell—very idiosyncratic. I hadn't placed it until I read Belgium's tag, then I remembered."

"But—what—I thought—I hadn't known you interacted with him _that _much!"

"I did a little." Luna pulled on her jacket, tranquil as a summer meadow. It rattled Hermione to her core.

"Luna," she said, her voice cracking, "_please_ don't tell—"

"Oh I won't say anything," Luna assured her, her pale eyebrows lifting in soft astonishment. "If you'd wanted him to join us at some point, you probably would have. I'll let the others know to owl before they come over again. I feel as if you'd like the warning to hide him better next time."

Hermione stared at her for another long moment, then pulled her back into a tight hug, crying a bit onto her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Luna."

"I don't know why, but it's okay," Luna said, patting her back. When Hermione finally drew away to wipe her eyes, Luna reached again for the door. "If you need me for anything, just owl. I'll keep Crookshanks in my thoughts—maybe I'll send you some filings off a vaperdinger stump for him. Rolf brought me one last week. I'll send them when they're ready, they have to age."

And then, with a last enigmatic smile, she was gone, and Hermione was alone on the welcome mat.

* * *

It was the sound of the television that jolted Hermione back to reality. She'd been standing there staring at the front door for god knew how long; with an effort she pulled herself away and wandered back into the sitting room, where Lucius had settled himself on the couch with Belgium by his side and Crookshanks in his lap, Fergus across from them in the armchair, looking more crotchety than usual.

Hermione watched them for a few moments; inevitably her focus narrowed only to Lucius. Her eyes raked over him, the startling figure he cut, an odd achromatic anomaly—like someone had taken a black-and-white figure from an old film and pasted it against the bland earth-tones of her sofa. He was spectacularly out of place there, eased back in total elegant relaxation, one arm draped over the back while the other rested in his lap, the slender fingers idly scratching at Crookshank's ears. Hermione felt, suddenly, a million miles away from him, like there were centuries and galaxies and walls and walls of concrete between them, a hundred lifetimes. In that moment he was as unreal to her as magic had been all those years ago, before Hogwarts, before any of it. He was alien. And she couldn't touch him if she tried.

She'd lied for him, broke her stable life in half for him—at first to destroy him, and now? Now she didn't know what it was for. She didn't seem to know anything anymore. And for Hermione Granger, that was the most terrifying thing in the world.

Without taking his eyes from the screen, Lucius spoke, his expression deadpan. "I can't help but notice that these cushions are mine."

"Correction," Fergus interjected, "_were _yours. I took the liberty of making a gift of them to Miss Granger—you would have, too, had you sat on the ones she was making due with before."

Lucius' lip curled slightly, but otherwise he gave no indication that the elf had spoken. Again, he addressed Hermione without looking at her, hefting the remote. "I pressed the button labeled _Power_"—his voice hit a deep, ominous note that recalled her back to masks and black robes—"but I felt no different, so I assume your device is in need of repair."

Hermione went on staring at him, unmoving. At last he glanced at her, his eyes instantly finding hers. He met her gaze openly, unblinking, and she found herself falling into those eyes once again, unwilling, unbidden, but entirely unable to resist.

She remembered suddenly that he'd been inside her that very day, had been physically closer to her than anyone had been in a long time. Her breath caught in her throat. With the sudden intrusion of her other life—her _real _life—the one where she had friends and duties and respectability—it was impossible to think of sex with Lucius as an actual memory, and not a dream or some lascivious fantasy. There was no way he'd pinned her to that same sofa and taken her so ferociously, was there? She noticed, as if for the first time, the tenderness between her legs, the raised heat on her skin where he'd grabbed her, bruised her. It sent a little ripple of pleasure coursing down her spine.

Finally he broke the silence again.

"Come," he said, holding his arms out slightly, as of to invite her in, "sit here with your maladjusted stray dog and your dying cat and stare at this Russian Muggle box with me. God knows these animals have been such a terrible burden of late—you deserve a little rest." Belgium whined in happy agreement, licking the air in Hermione's direction, and Crookshanks yawned and stretched contentedly in Lucius' lap.

It cracked her. She let out a sound, whether it was a laugh or a sob she really couldn't say, and she would have collapsed right there on the floor if Lucius hadn't acted as quickly as he did. As her knees gave out she found herself surrounded by him, engulfed in the steady strength of his arms. Unlike before, when she'd been hoisted out of the kitchen by her friends, she was acutely aware of the man beside her: all of her being wrapped itself up in his physical presence, holding her there, supporting her. She felt a large hand on the side of her face, felt the hardness of his jaw against her hairline. In that moment he was all that existed.

He said nothing, made no noise as he led her back to the couch and sat with her, pulling her against him, holding her firmly like a vice, like a straightjacket. They remained there for some time, just sitting, silent. The television droned mindlessly in the background, ignored by them both, and Fergus had slipped away with the animals with the sort of discreetness only elves could manage; whether by some signal from Lucius or his own volition, there was no knowing.

When the gale in her brain had died down, Hermione privately marveled at the fact that Lucius had a sense of humor. Who would've thought? She replayed his comments in her head and burst abruptly into laughter; it was so out-of-the-blue that Lucius jolted against her like a startled horse. She looked up at him, and he down at her, his eyebrows raised. Their noses were centimeters apart, but she felt as if she were nearer to him, fully ensconced, even closer than when they were kissing or locked in sex. She wondered at how he could make all that distance vanish with so little effort.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I just realized you'd made jokes."

A slow, almost taunting smile curled his fine lips. He clicked his tongue. "For same, Miss Granger. And all those years of being lauded as the brightest witch of your age and here you are, five minutes behind the conversation."

"Oh, well _pardon_ me, but until now I hadn't thought to look for humor in _you_." She pressed a finger firmly to the center of his chest.

"Well you had best start now and fill that gaping void in your life because frankly, I am delightful."

It couldn't be helped: she let out another burst of laughter and he smiled, genuinely, his eyes softening and warming at her, and it was so rare and lovely a thing that it silenced Hermione the instant she noticed.

He stilled again, his smile fading as quickly as it had come, and his voice dipped back into sobriety. "Will you be all right?" he asked. Not "_You okay?"_ or _"What's wrong?"_ because he already knew. Those questions needed no asking. She looked him over (it was practically a hobby at this point) and as he gazed back at her with equal steadiness, she felt something in her twist.

"Do you have a plan for abducting Draco?" she asked.

It was as much an answer as he needed. "I do."

"Do you want me to come with you?"

"It is imperative that you do."

"When do we leave?"

"That will depend."

"On?"

"On whether or not you will agree to put it off and pretend for a few minutes that we are two people leading normal, uncomplicated lives, as it may possibly be the last moment we have to do so." He paused. "Of course, that's after I ask Fergus to please take poor Belgium home so she has space again to run, and then to kindly _not _return here until called for," he added, louder.

"Of course sir," Fergus called back superciliously, and there was a crack of disapparation from the other room.

Hermione felt Lucius nuzzling into her hair, heard him inhale, and she closed her eyes and leaned into his touch—allowing herself, just for a moment, to forget her fear.

* * *

**A/N: I'm back into it! And I'm kinda excited for the upcoming chapters - sooo much drama ahead, just you wait ;D and of course it wouldn't be fair to put you through all that without a bit of smut for balance heheh. Also we're getting agonizingly close to 200 reviews! Please please _please _drop me a quick note if you're still out there, I really do adore hearing from you guys!**


	18. Chapter 18

"Do you play piano, Lucius?"

He frowned at one of her curls, winding it pensively around his gloved finger. "Yes." The natural question—how had she known?—hung in the air between them like old static, but he did not voice it. Perhaps he'd overheard her conversation with Luna on the doorstep, and perhaps Luna Lovegood was not a subject he wanted to broach at the moment.

Still, he hadn't pulled away, had remained there beside her on the couch, his arm wound around her with a lazy familiarity. She took it as an encouragement and pressed on. "And the violin?"

"I prefer the viola. It produces a richer sound." He paused. "I tried to get Draco involved with the violin when he was a boy. Fergus had given up on him but I believed, if I perhaps tutored him myself, he would develop a taste for it. But Draco was far more interested in the guitar—not that he ever learned to play that, either. I wouldn't allow it." Lucius smiled, but far from being a happy expression Hermione could see years of bitterness behind it.

She frowned at him, feeling the questions piling up on her tongue, but afraid that any more words she spoke would spoil their quiet tête-à-tête. He seemed done talking and had gone back to fiddling with her hair, gently plucking and stroking the curls, perhaps trying to tame them. _Oh Lucius, you're always fighting a losing battle._

"Why didn't you teach him?" she dared at last, almost twenty seconds after the fact, and he gave her an amused little half-glance out of the corners of his eyes.

"I've always found it to be rather uncouth. An instrument for street people. A Muggle instrument. And like most poorly qualified parents, I also believed, with enough pressure, I could mold my son into something that suited me. I did not like the guitar. Therefore, Draco would not like it either. And if he did, that could be corrected."

He didn't look away as he spoke, allowing the intimacy of their eye-contact to deepen and extend down into Hermione's soul. The melancholy was back in his face: a silent acknowledgement of his failure as a parent.

"Well," Hermione said slowly, "you could teach him now, couldn't you? If he still wanted?"

There was a long beat of silence. Lucius regarded her with the air of trying to determine if she was joking. When he spoke, his words were thick with cold sarcasm. "Is that _really_ a thing you can imagine happening?"

She lifted her chin. "Of course. People teach their children things all throughout their lives—even when they're adults. It's normal."

Lucius stared at her, long and hard. "I'm sure, with these hypothetical people you're referencing, there is a conspicuous absence of war, trauma and hatred."

She heaved a sigh. "All I'm saying is, maybe Draco would like you to teach him something he wants to learn. Maybe, instead of looking at it like too little too late, you could look at it as a step in a better direction."

"How I look at anything is irrelevant," Lucius bit off.

Hermione pursed her lips. "You're worried about him rejecting you if you try to repair things?" She watched his mouth press into a hard line. Fighting her self-preserving instinct—he still made her nervous, especially with him glowering like that—she reached up and soothed her fingertips along the silky hairs at his temple, down along the strong line of his jaw, trying to ease the tense muscles. To her immense pleasure, he relaxed, ever so slightly, into her touch. "I feel silly saying it, I'm really in no position to be giving anyone advice, least of all you, but I—I think this will help," she said quietly, and his eyes darted to her, calculating. "I really think, if you reach out to Draco, you'll be surprised by the response. It's a risk. But maybe it'll be worth it." She leaned back and raised her voice to normal, smiling as she added, "But this is all really irrelevant, seeing as we're about to kidnap and imprison him against his will. I'm sure he won't be in the mood for making nice with anyone for quite some time."

Lucius smiled obliquely at her.

* * *

Hermione shouldn't have been surprised that even _chatting_ with Lucius Malfoy was a risky activity.

To be fair, he remained quite tame and—dare she say it—_polite_ while they'd simply talked, enjoying the tea things her friends had left arranged on the coffee table. They kept the subject matter relatively light. She'd asked about the music he liked to play; he'd remarked on Piotrowski's older work; they talked of travel, of Lucius' business in China and the Ukraine, of the fickleness of intercontinental Floo, of the intricacies of exempting foreign Muggle fireplaces from the network.

He was a lovely conversationalist, always allowing her to speak her fill before he tacked on to the conversation; she never once caught him rambling or stalling with inane responses. And she couldn't help it: she loved the sound of his voice. In her secret mind, now that she'd heard him talk properly about things that were not vitriolic or seeped in intrigue, she realized she could listen to that voice for days on end without tiring of it. There were silences, but they were thoughtful ones, not awkward. He certainly gave her a lot to think about, something she couldn't truly say about anyone within her social circle, other than perhaps Luna, though in his own way he was easier to talk to than her—mostly because he didn't fling out the occasional insane theory or reference to some made-up creature as if it were fact.

They touched. Throughout it all, there was contact: a hand on her arm, knees brushing, the toe of her shoe tapping briefly at the sole of his. Each casual little connection brought her just a little more out of her shell, made her arms unfold, her shoulders relax, her spine curve towards him. She had no conscious realization of it, but the truth was that Hermione was unwinding around him. She felt bizarrely safe and comfortable. The part of her brain that feared judgement had, at some point, switched itself off, and she spoke openly and animatedly to him about things she'd never spoken with anyone, and relished it as he engaged her in kind.

Inevitably they talked of books. Hermione had tried to be subtle as she probed the range of his reading; he'd cottoned on of course (_nothing_ got by that man) and had shocked her by speaking openly about Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky, laughing over Tolkien, brooding over Swift. That led into law: what did she think of the reintroduction verses total eradication of giants, or any other creature considered "Dark"—and the hunting or trapping thereof? What about the Statute of Secrecy and its connotations about Muggles? What did she think of Kingsley? What did _he _think of Kingsley?

They argued. They argued passionately. No punches were pulled—and that was surprising, because Hermione had assumed once they'd found some area of disagreement, things would rapidly go to hell and there would be violence. But it didn't happen that way. Though she almost couldn't believe it, Lucius actually had some fairly good manners when he argued. He listened as she stated her case and presented a crisp counterpoint (often in the form of a question, she noted—damn but if he wasn't good). He didn't veer off topic. He didn't resort to _ad hominem_, which she originally had pegged as his weakness. Most interesting of all, he didn't get angry, even when the conversation got heated. He'd lean in, and his eyes with light up with a fierce gray fire that, rather than making her shrink away, seemed to stoke her own. At one point their noses were nearly touching as they debated vehemently over werewolf rights.

"They are human beings with a crippling disease, they deserve the same benefits as anyone in a similar position—"

"In what ways are they not given appropriate benefits?"

"Well, take—for example—a werewolf applying for a job. He or she _requires _sick leave once a month, so the employer hires someone without the disease because they _don't_ require the extra leave, or hires on the werewolf at a much lower salary than a regular person with equal qualifications. The werewolf is therefore persecuted due to bias against a medical condition—which _should_ be illegal under Clause 12 Paragraph 323 of the Regulation of Equal Hiring of Human Subjects, but it isn't, because werewolves are still classified as nonhuman! It's archaic!"

"But if a worker contracts a dangerous, incurable and highly contagious disease, such as Dragon Pox or the like, is the hiring party not required to terminate to maintain the safety of the workplace? Why would a lycanthrope be any different?"

"Lycanthropy isn't _that_ contagious! It's once a month, at night—"

"Requiring two or three days pre- and post-transformation recovery, and that's not including the risk of contamination from bodily fluids—which is a serious concern in some labor divisions. You would have a company operate at a loss and introduce an unnecessary hazard into their operation for…? What, may I ask? Not just to make the werewolf feel better about his situation, I hope?"

"It's about human rights, Lucius! It's not the werewolf's fault he has the condition he does, it isn't fair to persecute him on those grounds—"

"Ah," Lucius smiled lazily, "_fairness_. This, my dear, is where we must simply agree to disagree, as I do not believe the world is fair."

"Don't you think we should work towards the sort of world where fairness _is _realistic?" A silvery hair was dangling down around his jawline. Hermione reached across and brushed it aside without thinking.

His smile deepened, and he caught her hand before she could draw it away, his eyes locked on hers. "Not precisely."

And as the hot rush of indignation billowed through her, and she leaned in and opened her mouth to unleash another string of counterpoints on him, her eyes wide and glowing with passion, he acted. She realized, too late, that he'd probably goaded her a little on purpose, just to watch her lean into him, just see her blaze.

His lips were on hers before she could quite draw breath to speak, smothering her angry responses. She was roughly jerked into his lap, directly on top of his burgeoning erection, and his fingers were caressing her breasts through her shirt. She'd barely had time to gasp in shock before he bit her, sharpish, on the tingling flesh joining her neck and shoulder, stunning her like a cat might a mouse before the kill. For a moment she could only pant and make an unintelligible noise—whether of protest or approval, not even _she_ knew—as her arousal, already marshaled from their argument, skyrocketed to an alarming and precarious height, far above normal, as only he could do.

He'd gone to gently sucking on the fresh bite-mark and she'd moaned, it'd felt so damn _good_ after uncounted minutes of talking—she felt so fragile and feminine in his arms, pressed up against his broad chest; at the sound of her desire there was movement against her flank, a twitch evidencing his clear need, and a blush spread itself over her shoulders and cheekbones. She squirmed in his lap but should've known it would only encourage him: after all, every move she made created friction directly against his cock, and as she wriggled around, trying to get a better look at him, trying to regain some control of her own, he made a noise, a deep growl, that sent a wave of hot blood ricocheting south.

And then he threw her on the ground.

She actually cried out—not because it hurt, it wasn't far to fall and she'd landed on the plush carpet, but the motion had been so rough and sudden, so violent, shoving her right there on the edge of terror, half-thinking he'd reverted, jumped back to the Dark and was going to kill her—but the look on his face did not spell murder. Then again, it also wasn't a particularly comforting expression. He looked as he did back in the Ministry when he'd been in power, all languid haughty arrogance, his mouth ticked up just-so at the corners, as if seeing her there crumpled on the ground at his shoes amused him.

He was clothed up to full formal outer robes, the deep black of them shrouding him like a remnant of the past, making her feel suddenly small, raggedy, out of her depth. He swept down on her in one terrifyingly seductive movement, hovering over her, a gloved hand planted on either side of her head, and as she looked up at him she couldn't decide if she was truly unafraid. It wasn't that she worried that he would hurt her. No, she was confident now that he wouldn't—not in a way she would find disagreeable, in any case, and that alone said something about the odd understanding between them. _Like ___Hannibal and _Clarice._

Yet there was a whole alien world contained in those silver eyes: a world where pleasure hedged too close to pain and fear that the lot couldn't be distinguished. She was scared of what he could unleash on her, _in _her, scared slightly of her own body, of the powerful all-consuming way it reacted to him.

He didn't kiss her; she thought he might, had felt herself drawn up into his burning gaze. But before her lips could capture that decidedly kinky smirk, he'd slid away, ducked down her body, nestling into her breasts, tickling her with the ends of his feathery soft hair while at the same time ripping her clothes away, and she was rendered helpless again by the brutality of his hands.

She tried to study him, tried to keep her mind stable enough to analyze what he was doing to her, like she might some feral animal she'd read about in the _Monster Book of Monsters_. How did he manage to be so terrifically ruthless and yet so elegant and sensual at the same time? It was odd—disjointed and harmonious. He had her naked in moments, right there in her own sitting room, _again_, and the balance—had there ever been one—was upset as he lingered over her, still fully clothed. She reached for his buttons with trembling fingers, flashes of pale flesh rising deliciously in her memory, but he shoved her hands away, pinning them down beside her. She struggled; he was unyielding, unmoved. He gave her an _almost_ patronizing look (it really shouldn't have made her hotter, for god's sake) and then ducked down her prone body again.

"Oh _Merlin_," she announced as his mouth burned a torturous circle around one of her nipples. Her hands writhed under his, itching to wind themselves into the miles of thick blonde hair just out of her reach, but she was effectively shackled to the ground and had to settle for nuzzling her mouth and nose against that sinful corona. The smell of him acted on her like a strong aphrodisiac; she pressed a kiss to the hot white-gold locks and felt his teeth close around the tingling peak of her breast. She let out a very female moan, and at any other point she might've felt embarrassed over just how wanton she sounded, but here it only seemed to feed the hellish flames fast consuming them. She could see what Luna had been talking about now—it _did _smell like him in here. Already he'd imprinted his presence on her home.

She thought suddenly of Luna's imprisonment by the Malfoys and flinched a little with renewed guilt. What had been Lucius' involvement with her? Surely they must've had some sort of closer contact than just captor-prisoner, if she could still recognize his smell over all those years? A rather horrifying thought occurred to Hermione and she froze, the fire in her stuttering.

Lucius sensed it. He glanced up at her, frowning; her fears must've been obvious on her face because his expression grew stern. His lips, darkened to a dusky pink from recent activity, parted, and she expected him to speak, to ask her what was wrong—but entirely to the contrary his tongue flitted out and he placed a bold and deliberate stroke up her other nipple, flicking the tip, once, with the dexterous end of his tongue, his eyes locked firmly on hers.

She couldn't prevent a juddering, capitulating sigh. He hadn't needed words; she knew exactly what he was saying. _Not now. Whatever it is, it can wait—can't it?_

Well, if he was so hell-bent on distracting her he'd do well to let go of her wrists, damn him. She struggled against him, harder now, trying again for his buttons, or perhaps she wanted to slap him, she hadn't decided, and she'd opened her mouth to order him to let go, but as if to beat her cue he removed his left hand from her wrist—and promptly placed it over her mouth.

"Shh," he whispered, "not a sound." He was smiling that cold, arrogant smile down on her shocked expression. She could smell the fine leather of his glove, hot against her lips, as if he'd just taken it out of red coals and branded it to her skin. Really, she hated to admit it, but it was mind-bendingly sexy, all the more so because he knew exactly what he was doing to her.

Her shock immediately morphed into wide-eyed desire as he slinked down her body and nuzzled his lips to the apex of her thighs.

Well, if there was one thing to be said about Malfoy, it was that he certainly knew how to keep her on her toes.

Her mouth and hands were free now—his having slid away down her body to part her legs—but whatever she'd been so eager to do with them before had long since fled her mind, along with every other damn thing besides the smooth line of fire he was painting along her inner-thigh with that malicious tongue.

There was a meow from the doorway and Hermione's head snapped around to gawk at the sideways image of Crookshanks, sitting there watching them with a harassed look on his face. "Crooks!" she hissed, aware Lucius hadn't paused, but was gently teasing the fine hairs on her mons, a truly evil smile on his mouth, "Crooks, no! Go away! Go!" she flailed a hand in his direction, stuttering as she felt Lucius touch the tip of his tongue, oh so lightly, to her hooded clit. She squirmed but thank Godric her cat could understand commands and that he'd deigned to humor this particular one; with a disgusted sweep of his tail he was gone again, and Hermione slumped back, aware that, with the addition of some anxiety, her body had ratcheted up to an even higher stratum of lust. It was almost exhausting; all the blood in her had migrated south, and there was now a powerful, almost painful heartbeat between her legs, which were still being held firmly apart in Lucius' hands. She'd been acutely aware of what her demon lover had been doing and found that even now he was still taunting her, hadn't yet even parted her, feathering soft ghost-touches to the very edges of her sex.

God _damn _that bastard.

"Lucius!" Her voice snapped like a whip-crack. He did not answer. She made a frustrated little half-scream at the ceiling, at which he pressed what might as well have been a chased kiss to the top of her slit.

She made an angry noise and tried to writhe out of his grasp, propping herself up on her elbows to get better leverage on him, but no sooner had she done so than Lucius' hands seized her hips and jerked her sharply forward. Her back hit the floor and dragged so roughly on the carpet she knew she'd have rug-burn from her nape to her coccyx, but any indignation she might've felt was quashed when he buried his mouth firmly against her, searing her nether lips with a deep, searching kiss.

At _last_.

He really was wonderful, Lucius. Oh, _yes_, she forgave him everything, of course she did—in fact he'd absolutely never done anything wrong, had he? His tongue was inside her, thrusting, pressing against the sides her opening first on the left, then the right, then focusing on a glorious little spot at the base of her entrance he'd discovered within seconds. Had she ever been angry with him? She couldn't remember but it seemed to her that he was an honest-to-god angel, had to be, and she'd go on believing it if he just never stopped doing that _thing_ that made her want to burst out of her skin and climb screaming up the wall.

As he trailed a hot, wet line over her swollen clit she mused that he was better at this with her in her own skin than he'd been with her in Narcissa's. Or perhaps she was still just so amped up by the idea of _Lucius Malfoy _between _her _legs that it seemed so. Either way, it couldn't have been more than a minute before Hermione was right there on the edge of orgasm—and it had to be the fastest she'd ever reached the cusp. Then she felt an intrusion, deeper than his tongue, firm and wonderful, and she realized he'd inserted his index and middle fingers into her and had curled them up to rub her from the inside.

"Jesus _fucking _Merlin," she wailed, not realizing she'd seized handfuls of his lovely hair and was holding him fast to her. He'd sealed his mouth over her clitoris and had been sucking and flicking at her with escalating force, but at her exclamation he burst into laughter and that did it: she came. Her orgasm spasmed through her like a full-bodied seizure and she saw a dazzling white light, perhaps it was heaven, but more likely it was the headlight on a train that had just smashed into her because she felt winded, rolled under the arcs and waves of her release.

She didn't want it to end. This plane of existence, above awareness and reality, was so much better than normal life, she wanted to weep as she felt it ebbing away—always too soon. As she came back to herself she caught Lucius gazing down on her with an incredible expression: pure concentration, except for the deep glazed blackness of his eyes and the soft, sensual parting of his damp lips. He pulled his fingers slowly out of her and his brows creased exquisitely when she gripped him in a last, involuntary spasm, her body desperate to hold on, to keep some part of him locked in her. He was still gloved, and the realization made a flash of heat race over her skin, nearly recalling her to full arousal.

But then he removed himself completely, sitting back on his haunches and gazing over her body, naked and decadent and glittering with sweat, still trembling a little for him. His tongue flicked out and skimmed a turned-up corner of his mouth, and a low, purring growl followed: "You are magnificent when you come."

A pleasurable little tingle ran down her spine. She reached for him, tried to latch on to the front of his clothes, intent on ripping them off just as roughly as he'd done hers and returning the favor, but with an elusive smirk he stood up and out of her reach.

"Come," he said, grabbing hold of her outstretched hands and hoisting her, still naked, to her feet. Oh for Merlin's sake, she hadn't been reaching for a bloody hand-up! Her instinct was to be self-conscious and resentful, naked while he stood there shielded in layers of cloth, but he didn't allow her the luxury; she'd barely stumbled upright before he'd pulled her in for a searing, if brief, kiss that left her just as disoriented as before. "Get ready. Wear your work-clothes. We shall leave in thirty minutes."

She gaped at him. "No, we bloody will not! We've—you've just—I haven't even"—her eyes flicked none-too-subtly down his front, to the obvious stiffness between his hips, and she fought a burning blush, quickly realigning her gaze with his—"we are _not_ through here, Mr. Malfoy!"

He bent a stern look down at her, only it didn't help, because it was the same look he'd given her just before he'd strummed his tongue over her nipple, and that was all she could think of now. Merlin, he was going to tie every word and gesture he made to something horribly erotic, wasn't he? The bastard would be the end of her.

"Thirty minutes, Miss Granger," he said shortly. "And it may be prudent to have an overnight bag at the ready. We may need to leave here suddenly and I do not know if we will return for some time, possibly a few days." He paused. "Shall I have your cat sent to the Manor? He will be safe there, and Fergus will see to his feeding. He seems to have taken to Belgium. It's almost a shame to separate them, and this flat of yours is about to get rather too… lively… for old cats." He smirked again. "Not that it wasn't before."

"Lucius," she said, and she didn't even care how whiny she sounded, "do we really _need _to rush off? It's only—what?—four o'clock?" she glanced around, frowning, having not realized how dark it had gotten in the room. "It can't be that late—"

"Hermione," Lucius tutted, "it's nearly 10 in the evening."

She gaped at him. "But we couldn't have been talking for more than two hours!"

"It's been nearly six. Now, your cat…?"

Hermione hesitated. "Okay," she said at last, "he can go to the Manor, but please ask Fergus to keep that wretched Fairway away from him."

"I'd forgotten you met Fairway," Lucius said with mild amusement. "A shame you two met under those circumstances. He tends to hold lasting grudges, quite unlike any of my other familiars. I doubt he'll ever warm to you now."

"Well he can have his space and I'll have mine," Hermione muttered darkly. "I'm serious, that bird stays away from my cat, Lucius."

"Very well; I'll let Fergus know. Twenty-eight minutes, Miss Granger."

* * *

She'd wanted him to join her in the shower. Having him go down on her had been phenomenal, but it had been fast and she felt terribly cheated when he'd shut down her attempt to prolong their little tryst. Even with this new awfully risqué memory taking up space in her brain, she'd still wanted to see his body again. She'd wanted to reaffirm her certainty that he was indeed the best fuck on the planet. She'd wanted him to _join her in the bloody shower_, for Merlin's sake, but she didn't know how to ask. She supposed she could've just said the words—yelled them at him from across the room, where he'd sat himself primly in the armchair to await her. It was on the tip of her tongue to do so, despite the fact that it may have come off terribly stilted. But she feared his rejection. She just _knew_ he'd be brusque, and anyway, if he'd wanted to have any further—relations—with her, she supposed he would have tried while she'd still been naked on the floor in front of him grabbing at his clothes like a drowning woman.

Apparently they were on some kind of schedule. Had she known that, she wouldn't have spent so much time arguing with him over the best way to travel from London to Shíyàn.

With a fair bit of rushing she managed to make his ridiculous deadline and arrived back in the sitting room twenty-five minutes later, panting a little, her hair still damp and her best work outfit hanging off her shoulders.

He seemed impressed by her punctuality and granted her a small, appreciative smile, which triggered a little flurry of butterflies in her stomach, similar to the feeling she got whenever a professor congratulated her on a high-scoring exam. Sweet Jesus, now on top of everything she was craving his _approval?_ She'd set out to _ruin_ him in the beginning!

"Where are we going?"

"St. Mungo's." He'd risen to his full height and now looked down at her with a familiar stoicism, holding out his hand. She guessed he was dreading the task ahead. It made her nervous.

"Why?"

"We will discuss it there." He lifted his hand slightly, insisting. She realized it was the same one that had been knuckle-deep inside her just half an hour ago. He'd Scourgified himself (and the room, she noticed) back to impeccability, there were no signs anywhere that earlier even happened, and Hermione was again left wondering if she hadn't made it all up.

Sighing—because there was really no arguing when he used that tone—she took his hand, and they disapparated.

* * *

They reemerged from the void into the yellowy nimbus of an old street lamp down some scraggly lane in the bowels of London. It smelled like fresh garbage, and there were a couple of alley cats squabbling nearby and an old bum smoking crack behind a dumpster. He jumped when they materialized, dropping his pipe in a puddle, and stared at them through wide, bloodshot eyes.

"Oh," Hermione said, goggling back at him, "oh dear—Lucius—" she lowered her voice to a hiss, "quickly, we've got to Obliviate him—"

Lucius regarded the vagabond coolly for a moment, then tugged Hermione away. "No," he said, "I guarantee you we aren't the oddest thing that fellow has seen today."

When they reached the mouth of the alley Lucius spun Hermione around and backed her up against the wall, leaning close to murmur in her ear. "St. Mungo's is just down the street. I will walk you to the front, but then you must proceed alone. Go inside and ask the receptionist if Astoria Malfoy is working tonight. Fergus has informed me that she was covering night shifts. Flash some Ministry credentials, create some fiction about needing to interrogate her on an urgent matter—they should direct you to her. You must get her alone, and you must convince her to come with you. Tell her any likely lie. Take her back to your flat. I will be waiting there for you."

Hermione gaped at him. He looked back steadily a moment, his gray eyes very bright, almost luminescent in the gloom. Finally she found her voice. "Are you _completely mental?"_

"That is beside the point." He gave her a twisted little smile, but his humor didn't soften her. She made unintelligible sounds at him, waving her arms around, and after a few tries she managed to form actual words.

"How the _hell_ am I supposed to do this?!"

"I don't know." He looked grave again; there was something new in his eyes now, something suspiciously close to a plea. "You will need to figure that out."

"Why aren't you coming with me? Why didn't you send Fergus or Harriot or one of the other elves?"

"When Draco relapsed, I attempted to reach out to Astoria. My letter was returned with Draco's writing on the front, declaring 'wrong address.' I then went in person to their flat—she checked through the blinds when I knocked, and when she saw it was me I heard her disapparate. I then sent Fergus to liaison with her with the same results. I have not tried since then. I believe Draco may have told her that I intend to hurt her."

It was his tone that finally calmed Hermione's nerves. Though his face remained the same smooth mask of composure, she could hear in his voice just how deeply wounded he was by his son's actions. It struck a chord in her, and instinct propelled her to reach for him, sliding her fingers over the broad, rigid track of his shoulders, down his chest. "I don't know if I'll be able to do this, Lucius."

It was difficult to see, but there was a definite plea in his eyes now. She knew his face well enough to notice. "As it stands, it is our last option for reaching Draco. Will you at least try?"

She slumped in defeat. Though she hated to admit it, she was a sucker for puppy dog eyes. It had practically gotten Harry and Ron through their fifth year classes. And on Lucius—well, he could've asked her to burn down a bookstore and she would've done it. Beautiful prat.

"Why don't I just go directly after Draco under the same pretext?"

"Because I don't know where he is, or if he will go quietly with you; the Doxie has affected him, made him flighty. I do not want him to run off suddenly on us—Raleigh may get to him first. And if we _were_ to capture him, that would leave Astoria vulnerable to Ink, and it would almost guarantee Draco would try to escape us at every turn. This is the best way."

"What will happen when—_if_—I bring Astoria back home?"

"Fergus will be there to send up Anti-Disapparation Wards."

She waited for him to flesh out the rest of the plan, but he just stood there, his hand planted on the wall beside her, as if to bar her from ploughing on with her questions. But she was undeterred. "And…?"

He creased his brow. "I… would like to speak with her. She and I got to know each other a little whilst her and Draco were dating—we were not particularly close, but we did have a few conversations when Draco brought her around for dinner. She seemed reasonable then. Perhaps I could convince her to talk sense into Draco. If I cannot, she will effectively be our hostage. I will have to let Draco know somehow that I have her. He will then agree to meet with me, and I will capture him, too."

"And bring him to my flat?" Hermione's eyes had reached the size of dinner platters.

Lucius shook his head sharply. "I will have the elves prepare a safehouse for him and his wife. They will have to be confined to it until this whole mess blows over."

"But what if Draco _doesn't_ agree to meet with you?" Her heart began to pound a little faster. "What if he goes to Raleigh, and Raleigh sends people to poke around here, and they figure out that I'm the last one who's been seen with Astoria? And they—oh my god, Lucius, what if they go after my friends? My _family_—?"

Lucius leaned back, his arm dropping to his side. "Draco _will _agree to meet with me."

"But what if—?"

"I understand my son. He will not go to Raleigh. This will be… too gross a betrayal for him to involve outside sources. He will want to exact revenge on me personally, _mano a mano_. And when I capture him, Raleigh will believe he has fled with his wife on his own. No one will come here. No one will find out you spoke to Astoria."

She resisted. She looked down at her shoes, avoiding the dizzying spell of his eyes, and resisted him.

"Hermione." Her name sounded so certain on his tongue. She felt the cool leather of his gloved fingers under her chin, lifting her head, reaffixing her eyes on him. The gray burned her, burned away her doubts. "Trust me."

And she did. Merlin _knew _why, but she did.

* * *

If Hermione expected St. Mungo's to be desolate this time of night, she was sorely mistaken. As soon as she'd phased through the fake window display that camouflaged the hospital doors, she was waylaid by a flurry of high-stress activity: healers in their green scrubs darting in to address a myriad of patients, people being wheeled around in gurneys, memos flying in from every hall to circle around a very put-upon looking receptionist who was trying to juggle about twelve tasks at once.

It was a moment before Hermione could navigate through the chaos to the front desk; once there, she had to wait in a queue of about twelve people, all sporting the same grisly red rashes on various parts of their bodies (evidently, from what she overheard, they'd been on a business retreat and had unwisely decided to set up camp in a grove of Venomous Tentacula). They were bustled off to the third floor in good time, but even with them gone and Hermione being close enough to lean over the counter and address the receptionist, she had to wait another twenty minutes while the woman argued with one of the healers, then scribbled out a furious memo and sent it soaring up the nearest staircase.

"Sorry about that," the receptionist said dispassionately, "things have been hectic the last hour. What do you need?"

Hermione swallowed her nerves. "My name is Hermione Granger, I'm with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and I'm here looking for Astoria Malfoy. She's wanted for questioning about an urgent matter."

The receptionist perked up at this little bit of intrigue. "What sort of matter is she needed for?"

"It's Ministry business, you'd need clearance to know," Hermione rebuffed. "Could you summon her here? Or maybe point me in her direction?"

The woman scowled in disappointment. "Tori's here on the ground floor. Should be down in Room 78." Her voice lowered. "Treating another Doxie overdose. Sad matter, that, it's always an uphill struggle." She clicked her tongue in a show of moroseness. "You can go on back, but don't get in the healers' way, they're all doing delicate work."

"Thank you." Hermione took the hall to the left, wandered past several rooms (some of which had open doors; she spotted a man with bright blue skin trying to describe his symptoms to a frowning healer, and another who, by the looks of him, had crashed his broom in the worst possible way), dodged a few gurneys and a few harassed-looking healers toting scrolls of parchment that drug on the floor, until finally she came upon Room 78.

The atmosphere here was extraordinarily tense. Hermione knew right away which green-clad healer was Astoria, being that she was the only woman present; they all had face-masks up around their mouths and each of their wands were trained on the boy lying curled on his side in the hospital bed. Hermione blanched. He couldn't have been older than fifteen.

"Heartbeat fading," announced one of the men as the boy gave a feeble shudder, awfully like the ones Lucius had made last night; Hermione watched in awe as Astoria leaned in and performed an intricate wand-movement over the patient's head, intoning a long, complicated spell that seemed to go on forever; the boy's eyes snapped open and darted frantically around the room before they seemed to involuntarily slip shut again; Astoria's voice rose in pitch, she tried harder, repeating the spell and the wand-movement, but the boy seemed to have no fight left in him. With a last weak shudder, he went still.

There was an outbreak of movement as the healers all redoubled their efforts to resuscitate him, but it was futile, and when the head healer finally declared his time of death they all dropped away from his bedside in a surprisingly businesslike manner to tidy the room for the next patient. Hermione was so engrossed with staring at the young, motionless face that, by the time one of the healers had covered it with a sheet, she realized Astoria was no longer around. She'd walked right past Hermione into the hall.

Hermione just caught her as she rounded the corner heading into the staff lounge. "Wait—Mrs. Malfoy!" The woman didn't respond, but she turned when Hermione made a grab for the edge of her sleeve. They locked eyes, and Hermione took a step away, quickly snatching her hand back to her side.

Astoria had removed her facemask, and Hermione got her first proper look at the woman. She was pretty—very pretty. She stood an inch or two taller than Hermione, very thin, tawny, with dark brown hair and a burst of freckles over her cheeks and nose. There was a soul-withering hollowness in her hazel eyes, as if she were carrying the whole world on her shoulders—but this wasn't what caused Hermione to flinch away as if burned.

Astoria was pregnant. And she was nearing her time, if Hermione had to guess; the bow of her abdomen was quite pronounced under the loose green scrubs.

Hermione's immediate reaction was to leave. Make up some excuse about having mixed Astoria up with someone else and walk out of there. She couldn't abduct and traumatize a pregnant woman. Lucius would just have to come up with some other method of kidnapping Draco. But then, wouldn't Draco's disappearance not be just as traumatizing? And—as Lucius had said before—it may put Astoria in worse danger, if Ink came lurking around…

Oh god, _why _had she gotten herself mixed up in the Malfoys' business?

Astoria was scanning her with those tired, empty eyes. "You're Hermione Granger," she said, before Hermione could get the words unstuck from her throat. "I recognize you from the papers."

She had a birdlike voice; Hermione imagined she was a lovely singer. "I—yes," she said at last, finally regaining her bearings. _It's got to happen. There's no other way._ "I work for the Department for Magical Law Enforcement and I'm here on Ministry business. If you'd just come with me, please, I'd like a private word."

A look of terror lit up the void in Astoria's eyes. It was gone in a moment, schooled away as she stood herself a little taller, shoulders square, bracing herself for the worst. _Oh, no, she's thinking it's Draco,_ Hermione thought sadly, _she thinks he's been caught, or he's dead._

"All right," the woman said, a thread of steel in her melodious voice, "I'll come in a minute, I've just got to let the head healer know I'll be leaving early so he can get someone to cover my shift."

Hermione had to admire the woman's grace under pressure. Obviously she'd had to be strong to endure life with Draco for this long… After a few short words with a severe-looking older man (who gave Hermione a critical look, as if unconvinced she was who she claimed to be) and enduring a brief telling-off from same man (which seemed to roll right off her shoulders), Astoria grabbed a set of shabby robes from the staffroom and followed Hermione out to the lobby.

"We're—we're going to have to go to an interrogation room," Hermione said, trying not to fidget. "Are you okay to do a side-along apparation?"

Astoria frowned. "I don't normally like to," she said, checking her watch, "but if it'll make this go faster, then it shouldn't do us any harm…" She ran a hand over her belly, glancing down at it and muttering in a voice that was both soothing and terribly sad, "We'll just take the Knight Bus back, won't we? We can stretch a few sickles."

It ripped Hermione's heart out of her chest.

Astoria stepped in to be whisked away, and Hermione, swallowing down her misgivings one last time, offered up an arm, through which Astoria linked hers. And they disapparated.

* * *

It went almost as badly as Hermione thought.

They materialized in her sitting room and the sound of Fergus' voice intoning some complicated spell; no doubt he was closing off apparation behind them. With an upsurge of self-loathing that made her slightly queasy, Hermione reached over, grabbed Astoria's wand out of her pocket and—ignoring the shout of _"Hey!"_ behind her—hurtled across the room, putting the couch between them.

For her part, Astoria recovered quickly. She gave Hermione a wide-eyed look of mingled shock and rage, then—her eyes darting frantically around the room, clapping finally on Lucius, who stood there blocking the route to the door—her mouth fell open in a gasp of horror.

Lucius took a step forward, raising his hand to her. "Astoria—"

_"__You!"_ Hermione winced at the pure loathing in Astoria's voice.

"Astoria, listen to me—"

"You stay away from me!" she screamed, grabbing up the first thing she could find in arm's reach—which happened to be the entirety of a small end-table—and flinging it at Lucius, who ducked away with a look of mild alarm on his face. It shattered on the wall behind him, leaving a gaping hole. "Let me go! How—how dare you!" She rounded on Hermione. "How dare you _trick _me using your position! I swear to god will sue the shit out of you—"

"Astoria, calm down—"

"No!" she screamed at Lucius, grabbing the tall lamp near the bookcase and wielding it like a spear, _"No,_ you let me go this instant, you psychopath! You—you fucking _monster!"_ She swung the lamp at him and he flicked his wand, vanishing it from her hands.

With a snarl she dove for Hermione, chasing her once around the couch, howling for her wand; Fergus grabbed hold of her leg but she seemed barely to notice; she tried to reach over the back and grab Hermione by the hair, but then Lucius was upon her, his hands clamped on her flailing arms, pulling her back. She writhed angrily in his grip, screaming, then spun around and bit him on the arm; he didn't let go, but it made his grip loosen on his wand, which she then tried to wrench out of his grasp.

"Stop this at once!" Fergus shouted, still clinging to her leg. She aimed a kick at him and he darted back, raising a threatening finger, but Lucius gave him a look that made him stand down.

Astoria bit harder on Lucius' arm, wrenched harder on his wand, but he didn't give; he dragged her back across the room, forcing her down into the armchair; when she'd stilled a little he yanked his arm out of her mouth, wincing a bit, but otherwise giving no indication that she'd hurt him. "Astoria—" Her open palm flew out and she struck him across the face. The slap rang out into the room; Hermione cringed and Fergus stepped forward again, his ears quivering indignantly. Lucius' head had snapped aside at the impact; he looked slowly back at her, directly into her eyes, and it seemed the blow had rattled her, too, because she stopped struggling and looked shocked at herself, gazing up at him like he was some stranger she'd assaulted in the streets.

Then her eyes filled with tears, and she let out a broken little noise, quickly trying to stifle it with her knuckles. "Astoria," Lucius said yet again, but now it was different, softened to a crooning whisper, and he looked at her with such sadness that abruptly she struck out again—only this time it was to wrap her arms around his neck and drag him in to sob on his shoulder. He knelt down beside the armchair and drew his arms around her, too, soothing his hands over her back while she choked out, "Oh my god, Lucius, he's going to die, he's going to _die_ and I can't save him, nothing I do will save him—I thought he'd quit for the baby, and he tried but he—he needs help—"

"We will help him," he murmured back, "we will save him, Tori, he is not yet lost, there is still time—"

"I'm so sorry Lucius, I knew he stopped being himself awhile ago, it's changing him, I knew you were just trying to help, but when Draco cut you out of his life I couldn't go to you, I couldn't go to anyone, I didn't want him to think I was abandoning him too—he feels abandoned—and he'd know if I talked to you, I couldn't lie to him—and Narcissa just kept insisting he'd snap out of it and then she _left _and he's been worrying me so much, I'm supporting us but I'm due soon, I don't know what's going to happen when I can't work anymore, he gives all his money to that horrible Ink person to keep him off our backs—"

"It's all right," Lucius soothed, leaning away to brush the wild staticky strands of her hair out of her damp face, "you're all right, you're safe now, and we're going to get Draco to safety, too. You will not need to do everything by yourself anymore. You are not alone."

She crumpled at the surety in Lucius' face and flung her arms back around him, going on sobbing on his shoulder while he murmured consoling words in her ear.

Hermione was just thinking she was intruding when Fergus grabbed her by the wrist and drug her bodily from the room. For such a tiny fellow he really was strong.

"Go to bed," he told her, finally releasing her in the hall (she had to rub circulation back into her wrist). "You've been awake nearly two days. Get some rest. Tomorrow will be even more draining, I am sure of it."

She felt uneasy and wrong-footed, and despite her recent lack of sleep she'd never felt more awake. "Will—will Astoria be staying—?"

"I will settle her into the guest bedroom when she is ready." He waved a dismissive hand. "Go."

She hesitated. "Okay, well—um, will Lucius also be staying—?"

"Never you mind," he said impatiently. "I will not ask you again, Miss Granger. You will go to bed or I will Stun you and tuck you in myself."

* * *

Nearly two hours later found Hermione wide awake and chewing on her cheek while she stared at the spot where Lucius had lain in the throes of Doxie last night. She hadn't realized just how frightfully close he'd been to dying and she almost kicked herself for not taking him to the hospital, consequences be damned. She thought of Astoria, trying to save that boy from an overdose and failing. God, poor woman. How often did she have to watch people die from the same drug her husband was addicted to? Hermione winced sympathetically. What a life. And a baby on the way, too… It must've been eating away at her for god knew how long. No wonder she'd eventually broken down.

Hermione reached out and stroked the unused pillow. She wasn't sure if Lucius would sleep with her tonight. She knew it was highly unlikely, what with Astoria now around to witness their incredibly inappropriate affair. That's what it was, wasn't it? Inappropriate—on both sides. Still, it made her slightly depressed knowing she'd be alone tonight. They were hardly intimate, it was true, he'd only lain there once and not exactly on purpose, but something felt different now—something had shifted—it was almost odder to be alone in her bed than curled up against him. She hated herself just a little for it, but she was already pining for him: the warmth of his sateen skin, the masculine smell. Maybe it was the silly little girl in her believing that sex meant they now had some sort of deeper connection. She snorted, turning her back on the empty space, trying to force the feelings away. They lingered at the back of her brain like flies behind a screen.

Eventually she decided they must've all gone to bed, and that she could do with a glass of water. She pulled on a dressing gown and padded out of her room, into the dark hallway—the lights were still on (or rather, the candles still lit, god damn Fergus) in the sitting room, she veered to blow them out—but the murmur of voices stopped her before she'd gone in. She made to turn back around and dive back into her room straightaway, but then she heard her name, and that stopped her.

"—Miss Granger's flat. There is a guest room where you may stay until we contact Draco. I would prefer we do it first thing tomorrow, but I do not want to overstress you—"

"Lucius, come on, I work in the emergency unit of St. Mungo's, I'm no stranger to stress," responded a feminine voice. Astoria sounded considerably calmer now. "We should do it as soon as possible. He'll have gone to bed already, we'll be fine to tackle it in the morning." She sighed heavily. "I never thought it'd come to this…"

"And you're sure—?"

"Lucius, if you ask me to quit my job one more time, I'll reconsider helping," Astoria cut him off flatly. "Pregnant women can work, plenty of women work into the seventh month—"

"Not every woman has your job," Lucius admonished, "and regardless, that was not what I was going to ask. I was _going _to ask if you were sure Draco would listen."

Astoria was a short time answering. "He won't at first, I'm almost certain," she muttered. "But given a little time…"

"You may go on pretending to have nothing to do with it," Lucius offered quietly. "You may tell him I abducted you and forced you into hiding against your will. He will not be angry with you then."

"No, but he'll be unforgivably angry with _you_," Astoria muttered. "You're really hell-bent on completely ruining your relationship with him, aren't you?"

There was a long pause. "I don't want him to feel abandoned," Lucius responded eventually. For the first time, Hermione could hear his age in his voice. "I… don't want him to feel as if _everyone_ has turned on him. And in any case, I do not think my relationship with him is salvageable."

Astoria tutted quietly. "You wouldn't be saying that if you only knew how much he missed you," she muttered. "Anyway, it wouldn't do him any good for me to lie to him. I can't go on enabling his behavior, pretending I'll tolerate it. It'll be good for him to know the truth."

"The truth?"

"That we won't be in his life anymore if he carries on using." There was a rustle of clothing; Hermione could imagine Astoria smoothing the front of her scrubs down over her belly. "I won't let Scorpius grow up around it."

_"__Scorpius?"_ Lucius sounded politely incredulous.

Astoria giggled. "Just a name I'm considering. Keeping with the Black tradition, I guess, and I like the fact that the symbol's shaped like an 'm,' it matches the surname. I haven't told Draco yet—it's a boy."

There was a loaded silence from the other room. "Congratulations," Lucius said at last, and there was a beautiful, quiet happiness in his voice that Hermione dearly wished she could've seen on his face. He so rarely sounded happy, but when he did it transformed his voice into something like a lullaby. She tucked lovely sound away in the depths of her heart.

"Thank you—_grandpa._"

Lucius clicked his tongue angrily and the spell was broken. "I forbid you to teach him that word."

"Never," Astoria laughed. "We'll use _grandpère_. Far more dignified."

Lucius hummed. "If he calls me pépé in public I am holding you responsible."

Astoria laughed again. "Oh, I'd forgotten how I'd missed you, too. Did you ever get the gypsum weed to bloom purple?"

"Only once. But I do have quite a few dittany now."

"Oh god, I'd mentioned the shortage ages ago!" She sighed reminiscently. "I hadn't known you'd actually grow them for me. Thank you."

Hermione couldn't see the silent exchange that must've occurred—perhaps Lucius looked uncomfortable at being called out for doing something thoughtful, because Astoria suddenly (if gently) changed the subject. "Where will you be hiding us?"

"I had thought the estate near Taupo, on the water. Or perhaps Trincomalee."

"Draco loved that one on the shore," Astoria said. "The one near Wales. With the drakes."

Lucius released a long-suffering sigh. "I will let Harriot know. She is the elf assigned to that property. I'd recommend her ceviche, but if I recall correctly, undercooked seafood is not recommended for expecting women." There came the unmistakable sound of someone getting to their feet. "Come. You need to rest."

Hermione went tiptoeing as fast as she could back to her room, but not before she'd heard Astoria say earnestly, "Lucius—I just have to say—thank you."

His only response was, "The bedroom is just down the hall. You may call for me if you need anything."

* * *

Hermione fully expected to sleep alone that night, so much so that she'd yanked on a particularly embarrassing but comfortable pair of pajamas patterned with tiny fat cats (which she'd chosen from a bargain bin only because the cats were orange and flat-faced, like Crookshanks). She'd just settled on the cusp of sleep when she heard the door open; a load of clothes hit the floor and the mattress depressed beside her, and before she'd registered any of it, the pale, lithe and very nude form of Lucius Malfoy slid up behind her and pulled her back into his chest.

Her first thought was that he intended to finish what he'd frustratingly cut short earlier, but then she felt the tiredness in the heavy weight of his arm around her waist, and the exhaustion in the breaths rustling the baby-curls near the nape of her neck.

"We will deal with Draco in the morning," Lucius said quietly. "Astoria has agreed to help. Once we capture Draco, they will be sent to Shorecliff, and we can then use that card to make first contact with Ink."

He sounded so weary. She wanted to turn in his arms and kiss away the grimace she could hear on his soft lips, but she couldn't bring herself to break the warm, delicious alignment of their bodies.

"I'm sorry," he murmured eventually.

She almost started. He'd been quiet for so long that she'd thought he'd fallen asleep. She smiled small into the darkness. "For asking me to kidnap a pregnant woman, or for the resulting chase around the sitting room by said pregnant woman?"

"For everything."

Her heart wrenched in her chest. She'd never heard anything spoken with more earnest sadness than those two words. She reached up and stroked his hand, splayed hot over her abdomen. "I know."

He relaxed. It was enough she acknowledged his sincerity; he must not have expected forgiveness, and Hermione was not so sure she could even give it. But it was a step. A small one, and in a dangerous direction—but they'd taken it now, and there was no turning back.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry for the late post, I was sent to the ass-end of nowhere for work and didn't have cell coverage, much less internet—just 13 hour days of hard manual labor. I fucking hate my job. Anyway! I picture Astoria a bit like Lisa Mitchell, especially in her Incomplete Lullaby or Coin Laundry videos. I donno why, but her face immediately jumped into my head.**

**Please insert 1 review for 1 happy Dasti and 1 faster update! C:**


	19. Chapter 19

It was half nine when Hermione woke.

With her eyes still closed, she felt around for the sleek outline of her bedmate, maybe just to see if he'd let her curl up in his arms for awhile or maybe for other not-so-innocent reasons—but after a minute of fumbling over cold pillows and sheet-clots, she realized he must've slipped away earlier.

Predictable.

Still, she couldn't help but smile despite her disappointment. If she wasn't very much mistaken, she'd just gotten her best night's sleep within easy memory, and she hadn't even consumed any of her special melatonin-spiked teas or _anything_. She must've been totally catatonic if Lucius had managed to leave without waking her.

Soon enough, however, reality came creeping back in, snuffing out her smile. If Lucius was gone it meant that unpleasant events were already unfolding outside her sunlit bedroom. The thought propelled her upright and she rubbed the last remnants of sleep out of her eyes; almost immediately she spotted the tiny roll of parchment on her bedside cabinet.

The message was fairly short, penned in a straight, calligraphic hand. She knew just from a glance who'd left it.

_Miss Granger,_

_I've gone to detain my son. Please try to keep Astoria and Fergus in separate rooms while I am away. _

_I must say, you are charming when you sleep, notwithstanding your multiple attempts to fold the sheets and uphold conversation. At one point we had a discussion about all the invaluable life advice you've gotten from your cat. I should like to continue it when you are conscious, it was riveting.  
_

_– __Lucius  
_

She didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so she settled for burying her face in his abandoned pillow and smothering herself. Wisps of his scent still clung to the linen, and she inhaled deep, drowning out her embarrassment in the fading vestiges of his presence. As delightful as he smelled, she couldn't ignore the more serious contents of his letter forever, and eventually she forced herself out of bed, sick with worry.

She'd showered and dressed in record time and was just battling down her unruly hair when there was a crash from the kitchen.

_Oh god—he's back—he's brought Draco here, _she thought wildly, abandoning her room and sprinting the length of her apartment, wand drawn, her comb still hopelessly tangled in her hair. She skidded into the kitchen, fully expecting to find the Malfoy men locked in a life-or-death duel—but what she actually found was Astoria and Fergus, the latter seated at the table, the former standing up on a chair next to the sink, both of them glaring daggers at each other.

A bowl of what appeared to be warm cement lay broken on the floor near Astoria's chair.

"Whoops," Astoria said, all sarcasm. "Sorry about that. Must've slipped."

"You are forgiven," Fergus replied, in a very soft, very poisonous voice. "I find that women in your condition are frequently maladroit." He snapped his fingers, and the mess rearranged itself in the sink; another snap, and an identical bowl filled with identical gray mash appeared on Astoria's placemat. "Do try to be more cautious."

He turned his back on her and started cleaning the kitchen, something Hermione really ought to have done yesterday after her friends' impromptu visit, but she was beyond trying to put him off his chores: once he'd started there was no stopping him, and anyway, he was significantly more pleasant when distracted.

It was at this point that Hermione and Astoria locked eyes, and Hermione hesitated, not sure what to do or say—almost expecting the other woman to come at her with another lamp—but Astoria only smiled wanly and said, "Morning," in a nonthreatening enough voice that Hermione felt safe enough to take the seat across from her at the table.

"Morning," she echoed, loading a ham-and-swiss omelet onto her plate.

Astoria's smile broadened. "I'm sorry, but did you know there's a comb sticking vertically out of your head?"

"Oh Merlin—"

"No, no, let me." Astoria pulled out her wand and waved it; Hermione felt the comb vanish, as well as her hair dry and rearrange itself into tame ringlets around her face. She ran her fingers experimentally through the locks and was astounded when they came away without getting snagged.

"Thank you," Hermione said earnestly. Astoria only smiled. There was a beat of slightly awkward silence, then Hermione dared, "Did—did you sleep all right?"

Astoria's smile vanished. "Well enough," she said grumpily. Her hair—a much darker shade of brown than Hermione's, and pin-straight besides—hung lank and ragged around her head, and there were marked circles under her eyes. With a quick glance at Fergus over her shoulder, she leaned in close to Hermione and whispered, "I might've gotten a bit more if a certain little shit hadn't kept breaking into my room and rolling me onto my left side, so that there'd be 'maximum bloodflow to the womb.' It was cute about the first six times, but after that I'm afraid I got a little mouthy with him." She reached for a bit of toast, only to have her hand slapped down by Fergus, who seemed to materialize out of nowhere at her elbow. "Ouch! Why you little—" Astoria rubbed her hand and glowered at him. "I swear to _god_ if you touch me again—"

"You shouldn't eat white bread," Fergus snapped. "It's bad for the baby. All this"—he gestured at the lovely, aromatic breakfast spread—"is for Miss Granger, and Lucius if he so chooses to eat when he returns. That there"—he pointed at the bowl of awful-looking mash—"_that's_ yours, as I have told you no less than five times now. If you get hungry again before lunch I shall prepare you more of it. I've taken that sugary garbage out of your purse—"

"Hey! Those were _my_ Jelly Slugs, you wretched—"

"—and they're terrible for the baby," he chided.

"Scorpius happens to like them," she retorted. "You'd better give those back sharpish, you right piece of—"

"I'm afraid they've found a new home in the garbage compactor, along with the little stash you had in the inner left pocket of your robes."

"Stop going through my stuff!" she roared at him, so loudly he leaned back on his heels and gave her a reproving look. "Those Whizzbees helped me through the morning sickness—"

"Which you don't have anymore, do you?" Fergus bared his little teeth in a condescending smile. "So you won't be needing those obesity-inducing sugar-pills any longer. Do you want your child to come out looking like a quaffle? With your genes the poor thing won't stand much chance: I've seen your mother, after all. Her tailor is certainly no stranger to _Engorgio, _nothing would fit on her otherwise. On that note, I'd be careful, if I were you. You'll go down the same _wide _path if you don't start practicing a little discipline now and then."

Astoria swung a hand at him, which he deftly avoided, looking bored. "How _dare_ you," she snarled. "You have _no right _to talk to me that way, you little _cunt_—"

"Enough." He waved a hand in her face, cutting her off. "You shouldn't swear during pregnancy. It makes for a fussy baby. And if I ever find another bag of pickle-flavored crisps on you again, I shall have to seize your access to money and take a more active role in your diet. Don't you know pickles make the baby come out sour, woman? Now eat your breakfast and try not to be so hysterical. All this yelling increases the blood pressure and places stress on the baby."

He returned to the sink. Astoria shot him a curdling look, grabbed a piece of toast, and shoved it spitefully in her mouth.

Hermione gave her a humorless smile. "He put my couch cushions in the garbage compactor, too," she whispered.

Astoria's eyes widened. "We should bum-rush him and put _him _in there, see how he likes it."

"I think he might be more dangerous than he looks." Hermione shot a furtive glance at the elf's back. "Maybe if we figure out where he sleeps—"

"Oh there's no need, I found him curled up under my bed last night. He'd somehow snuck an old phonograph under there and was playing Haydn to my stomach when he thought I'd fallen asleep."

"You're _joking_—"

"No, you don't understand," Astoria leaned in closer, "imagine waking up and looking under your bed and seeing _that thing _staring back at you, and then having him tell you off for waking up in the first place because it's 'bad for the baby!'" She gave Hermione a deeply scandalized look. "I'll never be the same."

"I know how you feel—I've been dealing with him for a few days now, and he's either broken or rearranged everything in this flat. I couldn't even find my toothbrush a few nights ago because he'd put it in a jar of bleach under the sink, and you don't even want to know what he's done to my underclothes—"

"I'm guessing he did the same to yours as he did to mine—_while they were still on my body_." Astoria pinched the bridge of her nose. "He's the _worst_ elf in the world. I'll never understand why Lucius keeps him around, if he belonged to my family I'd sack him straightaway. And he keeps going on about how he'll tutor Scorpius one day, as if I would _ever _let him anywhere near—"

"You most certainly will," Fergus called across the room, his back still turned. Astoria jumped a little, blushing—then, catching Hermione's eye, she raised both middle fingers at him over her shoulders.

Hermione chuckled. She knew exactly why Lucius tolerated some of Fergus' more… unsavory qualities, but she doubted she'd be able to explain it properly to Astoria. Or anyone, for that matter.

"Sooo…" Astoria drew out the word with a would-be casual air, pulling the bowl of mash towards her, "how long have you two been seeing each other?"

Hermione's pulse stuttered. "Who? Me and Fergus?" she laughed, doing her best to look nonchalant and not at all horrified. "Well honestly he isn't my type. We tried to make it work but I couldn't get over the height difference."

"No," Fergus called, his voice just hedging on impish, "I'm afraid Miss Granger _does _prefer them tall."

Hermione choked a bit on her orange juice. "You stay out of this!"

"Certainly."

Though Astoria kept her eyes fixed on her bowl, a wry smile twisted up the corner of her mouth. "All right then, Granger," she said, swirling her spoon around in her gray mush, "you don't have to talk, it's not my business anyway… I just thought, since you kidnapped me, stole my wand and held me against my will last night, I've got rights to a few prying questions. And it's all so devilishly _scandalous, _could you blame me?"

Hermione stuffed her mouth nervously with bacon, willing herself to look indifferent. "I really don't know what you're talking about. Or you," she snapped at Fergus, who was doing a poor job hiding his sniggering.

Astoria's smile grew. "Oh really? So you think it's completely ordinary and not at all suspicious for Lucius to have set up camp in _your _flat, of all places?"

"That's—he—" She floundered under Astoria's mischievous gaze. "We're working together to bring down the Dark market, it's kind of—I _do _work for the Ministry and Lucius had some intelligence on the—this—these are delicate matters, Mrs. Malfoy, I can't legally get into any details—"

"There I was, thinking I'd never see anything stranger than Lucius Malfoy hiding out in a muggleborn's flat," Astoria mused, "but I assumed he had some blackmail material on you that led to the weird living arrangements. This _is_ the last place anyone would look for him, after all. And I wouldn't've suspected anything more, _until_ I went looking for him this morning and couldn't find him. I was ready to check at the Manor, I thought maybe he'd gone back—but then he came waltzing down that hall there. The same one you vanished down last night." She raised her eyebrows innocently. "I just don't understand _why _he was back there with you so early in the morning, is all."

"He—he—there—we were having a conversation," Hermione spluttered. "About today's plans. Since I didn't get filled in last night."

"Oh you didn't? Too tired?" Astoria grinned, and too late Hermione realized her own unfortunate wording. She must've turned the color of ground beef; her face practically glowed with heat. "Hmm, well I hope it wasn't on my account, I really couldn't hear anything over the Haydn, you could've gotten all the _filling in_ you liked—"

"I—that's completely—_preposterous_, I'd never, and _he'd_ never—we'd—"

"So is he good?" Astoria pressed eagerly. "As good as he looks? I mean I'd never normally ask, ever, but since the circumstances are a bit incongruous anyway I'll admit I've always been just a little curious. Anyone who's met him and had a pulse would be."

"This—you—this is not an appropriate topic of conversation to be having at _this_ juncture, frankly, and anyway I don't even know _what _you're referring to—"

"Oh _go on_, Granger!" Astoria flipped a hand at her. "You're two single adults, it's not like I'm judging you!"

Hermione set her silverware down sharply. "Nothing like that is going on between me and Mr. Malfoy!" She used her most intimidating voice, hoping it made up for the fact that she couldn't quite look Astoria in the eyes when she said it.

Astoria's expression didn't flicker. "Of course not," she responded with a wide smile and a shrug.

The conversation was in serious need of rerouting. Hermione cleared her throat and tried to marshal up a businesslike tone. "So I didn't miss anything this morning, then? Just—just that Lucius left to get Draco?"

"Well, I used your fireplace to floo home," Astoria said. "I stuck my head in and I talked to Draco a bit. He was upset that I hadn't come home last night. I asked him to come through the floo, and I'd explain, but he… he was suspicious and wanted _me _to come through to _him_. So I told him I'd run into Lucius last night, and that he was holding me at a safehouse and wouldn't let me leave. I—I knew it would provoke him but the whole point was to get him to come through, then I could explain properly. But he only demanded that Lucius meet him in person, then he shut off the connection. Lucius disapparated there. It's been about half an hour now." She spoke casually, but a shadow of that haunted look had returned to her eyes.

Hermione did her best to seem unaffected herself, even though her heart was pounding in her ears. "Do you think I should check on them? Maybe—maybe something's happened?" _Like maybe they've killed each other in a massive street-brawl?_

Astoria shook her head. "Let them work it out. You showing up will only make matters worse—Draco will want to know how you got so involved, and since you can't even explain it to _me_, I doubt you could really deal with him." She took an experimental bite of her breakfast and grimaced. "Ugh, what is this? Papier-mâché?"

"It is a nutrient-rich, low-sodium, unsweetened, high-fiber pregnancy formulae—" Fergus began, but was cut off abruptly by another ringing crash as Astoria's second bowl met the same fate as her first.

"Whoops," Astoria trilled again, smiling sweetly, "I guess my big fat pregnant hands are too _maladroit_ for that sort of thing, Fergus. I'd better stick to toast."

Fergus clenched his teeth, looking at Astoria as if he'd very much like to slap her, but she went on smiling at him until—with what appeared to be a colossal effort—he forced himself to smile back, snapping his fingers to clean up the mess and adding through clenched teeth, "Oh absolutely, my dear." He then dragged his chair back to the table (the chores having been completed) and settled himself down between the women.

Astoria reached for the toast again, but was, again, met with another stinging slap on her wrist. A click of his fingers later, and Fergus had conjured up yet another bowl of mash in front of her. "Never fear," he told her, his smile taking on a rather menacing edge as he raised a finger in her direction, "I have an absolutely _inexhaustible _supply for you. Now, you will eat that pregnancy formulae three times a day, at the appointed hours, and I will not hear another word out of your mouth about it unless it is an exclamation of delight. Am I understood?"

Astoria dropped all pretenses. "How about you give me my sweets back and I _won't_ punt your ancient little arse across the room?" she snarled, ignoring the threatening finger aimed between her eyes.

"What did I say about hysterics, Mrs. Malfoy?"

"Why does everyone keep calling me that? Mrs. Malfoy is _Narcissa's _name, not mine—"

"No longer," Fergus snapped. "It's yours to bear now. You're carrying the heir to the name. You're grand lady of the Manor"—(Astoria mimed retching)—"and after this mess has been cleared up you and Draco shall move back and take up your responsibilities to the household. It isn't right for the scion to be raised outside of its walls."

"I'm sure Lucius will be thrilled to hear he's being kicked out of his own house."

Fergus opened his mouth to retort, half-glancing at Hermione as he did so, but before he could form the words there came the unmistakable crack of apparation from the sitting room. Fergus' head swiveled around on his shoulders, his ears quivering, and he spat out the same complex incantation he'd used last night to trap Astoria in the flat, but it was nearly drowned out by a hoarse bellow.

_"__TORI?"_

"Oh no," Astoria muttered, tensing up in her seat.

There were angry footsteps, then the entire kitchen archway was filled with the livid form of Draco Malfoy.

It had been some time—weeks, possibly months, Hermione didn't remember exactly—since she'd seen him, and she'd expected him to look absolutely dreadful, like those anti-Doxie posters showing before-and-after pictures of addicts that she'd occasionally spot around wizarding London. But he looked just the same as she remembered: maybe a little thinner than he'd been at school, certainly more washed out and beat-down than before, rather like he'd been the last few years of the War. He was dressed in formal business robes, the sort she'd seen him wear to work many times when she'd been stalking him, but they were rumpled and his hair was tousled. Most noticeably, however, were his eyes: large black pools, so dilated that the gray of them was barely visible. They looked exactly as Lucius' had the night Raleigh cut him.

_Oh, dear,_ Hermione thought, reaching into her pocket for her wand, _he's high_.

Lucius himself came around the corner a second later. He, too, was disheveled, though far more so; he looked like he'd been grabbed and shaken a few times. In both hands he clutched a wand: one silver-handled, the other just a little shorter, black, simple. He quickly pocketed them both.

If the atmosphere had been tense before, it was small change compared to now.

Hermione caught Lucius' gaze—her eyes worried and nervous, his grave—but he glanced away, zeroing in on the back of Draco's head as if he wanted to grab him by the nape and steer him back out of the room.

"Tori," Draco repeated, his voice quietly toxic, his eyes riveted on his wife. "You said you were being held here against your will."

Astoria drew back a little in her seat. "Draco—"

"You told me," he spoke over her, his voice rising to a crescendo that made even Hermione nervous, "my father kidnapped you and wasn't allowing you to leave." He stepped into the room, slow, vulturine. His voice dipped low again. "You don't look distressed."

"Draco, I needed you to come here to safety so I could—"

"How long have you been conspiring behind my back with him?" Draco spat, cutting her off. "How long have you been plotting to get me back into his clutches?"

"That's not—"

"I've told you about him. I've told you over and over. It's like I'm talking to the wall with you sometimes, you know that? Do you have any fucking clue what he's involved with? What he's _done?"_ Draco bellowed the last word, slamming his fist on the table, making the cutlery (and both the women) rattle. There was something odd about his movements—something too energized, too sharp and almost insectoid, as if he were a spring toy wound too tight. He started to move around the table towards Astoria with such an intense look on his face that Fergus, seated in the chair between them, stood up and reached out towards him.

"Draco," he started, but upon spotting him Draco's eyes widened alarmingly and jerked away, looking disgusted.

"Oh Christ, as if this couldn't get worse you've brought _this fucking thing_ here too!" He rounded suddenly on Lucius, storming up to him and thumping his index finger hard into his sternum. "You can't help yourself, can you? It's compulsive. Every little thing you do—_you can't stop making my life a living hell!"_

Lucius stood tall and cold and passive even as his son spat venom in his face. "No," he said evenly, "but you could, Draco."

Draco laughed, and Hermione had never heard such a scathing noise. "Oh that's clever, isn't it? You're clever. You've always been that way, jumping at every opportunity to make me look stupid. Make me feel worse about everything." He got so close to Lucius' face that their noses were bare inches apart, mirror images of each other, nearly identical, one side all fire and vitriol, the other a mask of ice. "Well congratulations, dad. You've gone above and beyond. Using my wife to get to me—that's a new low. The last fucking person in this shitty world I give a damn about, and you got your claws in her. And _you_"—again, the finger thumped audibly against Lucius' chest—"trapping me here so you can go on again about how you want to help me and how everything's going to go back to normal. All the fucking _lies_. All the bullshit." He shook his head, and his face transformed, matching Lucius' expression of icy indifference so eerily well it was frightening. "I fucking hate you."

Lucius gave no indication that Draco had even spoken, not a twitch of his mouth, not a blink. Draco scoffed, clearly having not expected a response from his father, and rounded back on Astoria, but as he turned, Hermione saw Lucius swallow once—the only indication that Draco had hurt him.

"Come on," Draco snapped at Astoria, heading around the table for her again, "we're leaving."

"Draco, no." Astoria's belly brushed the edge of the table as she stood and backed away from him. She was impassive, her voice calm and firm, her face almost clinical, as if she were facing down a confused patient who'd suffered a head injury. "You've got to listen—"

"I don't _got_ to do anything—"

"You _need_ to listen. Try to ignore your emotions. Try to understand. You're not thinking clearly—"

"I'm thinking fine," he snarled. "Why do you always tell me that? It's fucking irritating. Now come on, we're leaving—"

"You are not," Fergus announced, again reaching for Draco as he passed his end of the table. "You will stop this at once. You will sit down civilly and—"

_"__Shut the fuck up!"_ Draco spun around and hit Fergus across the face, knocking him to the floor.

A shockwave passed through the room. Hermione winced; Astoria's hands jumped up to cover her mouth. Nobody present had any delusions about Fergus, but watching him stricken to the ground was about as horrifying as watching an old man fall in the street. Draco had hit him—he'd hit the ancient keeper. And the sight stripped Lucius of what patience he had left. His icy mask cracked at last and he moved with a focused, leonine rage after Draco, who hadn't looked back at the elf, and had begun to grab for Astoria; in a flash he'd slammed his son up against the wall with enough force to knock down Hermione's clock and kneazle calendar.

"How dare you." Even from her position of safety all the way across the room, Hermione still felt a chill crawl up her back from the soft, low menace in Lucius' voice. "How dare you lay hands on him. How dare you act so deplorably now, when your family needs you most. You _will_ master yourself, Draco, and you will listen to us, or you will find yourself entirely without options."

Fergus started to get up, and Hermione didn't think; she rushed over to help him, and out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw Astoria twitch forward, too, almost as if she had the same urge. He was bleeding a little from the corner of his mouth, but he daubed it away with the napkin Hermione provided him, glancing frostily at Draco over Lucius' shoulder. "A little limp, boy," he sniffed, accepting Hermione's hand-up and dusting off his pillowcase. "I see you haven't made much use of the boxing lessons I attempted to give you. Shame; you may not have gotten beat up in school so many times if you'd paid any attention."

But Draco showed no remorse. He didn't look surprised at being manhandled by his father, and he didn't spare Fergus a glance, not even after the insult. He levelled his gaze into Lucius' as unflinchingly as before. "You fucking hypocrite. You want to talk about hitting elves? Or about all the times _your _family needed you?" He chuckled hollowly, lifelessly, and for the first time Hermione realized he _wasn't_ in his right mind—he was beyond fear, beyond reason.

Astoria came up behind Lucius and, and after a slight, nervous hesitation (as he seemed to be radiating lightning) she placed a hand on his shoulder. "Lucius," she muttered, "let him go. He's not in control, he'll regret all this later. Don't hurt him."

But it was then that Draco finally spotted Hermione. "Granger?" he said quizzically, and the abrupt return to his normal tone of voice almost made her laugh. "What the fuck are you doing here?" He glanced around the room, as if noticing it for the first time, too. "Where—is this your fucking house? What—" And then his eyes widened with a dawning comprehension. "You're with the Ministry." He fixed his eyes, once again full of rage, back on his father. _"You're_ with the Ministry. Oh god—all of you—you've all been—you're all conspiring to put me in a fucking cell in Azkaban! You're throwing me under the bus to save your own fucking skins!" He knocked Lucius' grip off the front of his robes and shoved him away, hard. Lucius nearly collided with Astoria, who stepped aside just in time, her hands darting down protectively over her belly; Lucius had barely steadied himself when Draco lunged, swinging for him, landing a messy blow on his right eye.

And that was it.

Lucius drew his wand and pointed it into the center of Draco's forehead.

Behind him, Fergus did the same with his finger, a little warning spark flying off the sharp nail.

The time for talking was over.

Draco finally hesitated.

"You will sit down," Lucius drawled. A purple bruise was already blooming across his pale skin; he did not reach up to touch it, in fact he hardly seemed aware it was there. "You will apologize to Fergus for striking him. You will apologize to your wife for using such an inappropriate tone with her and placing her and your child at risk. You will apologize to _me_ for acting like such a godforsaken animal. And then you will sit quietly and listen while we speak. Do you require any further instruction?"

Draco worked his jaw, but the combined threat of Lucius and Fergus held enough sway over him that he acquiesced to the lattermost of the commands—though not without giving his father a tar-black look of pure hatred as he did so. With an angry scrape he yanked out a kitchen chair and dropped into it like a sullen teenager, glowering first at Lucius, who sat across from him; then Astoria, who nervously settled at his right; then Hermione and Fergus, who nearly sat on each other as they both tried to claim the last chair.

"Oh, sorry!" Hermione jumped up, but Fergus rolled his eyes and waved her into the seat, snapping his fingers and conjuring another, slightly taller chair for himself at her elbow. "Sorry," she whispered again as she sat, blushing, then blushing harder when he gave her a look that said plainly, _"S__hut up_._"_

Draco had been watching them. Hermione caught his eye and saw something there, barely visible under the bitter contempt—he almost looked amused. But his gaze snapped at once back to his father, as if drawn there by gravity.

"This situation is out of hand." Lucius tapped the tip of his silver-handled wand idly against his palm. "I apologize for taking such drastic measures, but they were necessary. You and your wife needed to be removed from the immediate danger—"

"Just fucking get on with it," Draco snapped.

Lucius narrowed his eyes. "You will be taken to Shorecliff and you will remain there until further notice. You will be divested of your wand, and you will not be permitted to leave the grounds until I retrieve you personally. Fergus will keep an eye on you while you detox; if you make any attempt to harm him again, he has my full permission to subdue you in any way he sees fit. And until such a time he deems you clean, Astoria will remain here."

Movement around the table: Astoria glanced at Lucius, alarmed, and Draco made to launch himself out of his chair, only Lucius was quicker; with a twitch of his wand, ropes materialized around Draco's wrists and ankles, binding him down.

They both began chattering simultaneously.

"Lucius—"

"_How fucking dare you_—"

"—Draco and I are not going to be separated—"

"—_you bastard, how dare you tie me down like I'm some kind of fucking muggle_—"

"—he needs a healer around, I've got to watch him, I have to make sure he comes down safely—"

"—_fucking let me go you poncy piece of shit_—"

Lucius addressed Astoria. "Fergus has had extensive training in healing. He once performed a successful open-heart surgery in the middle of a Quidditch pitch. I can assure you he will be more than adequate to handle Draco's detox."

Astoria's eyes flashed, and she raised her voice over Draco's increasingly frenetic swearing. "I'm sorry, Lucius, but I'm not leaving my husband alone, especially not with _him_. You can't ask me to."

"Astoria." Lucius met her angry stare with cold steel. "He is irrational and dangerous, and he will be even more so when he comes off the drug. Withdrawal after long-term use can trigger seizures and violent outbursts. I will not have you or your child—"

"Well pardon me, Mr. Malfoy," Astoria said, suddenly formal, "but if I am not mistaken, you have absolutely no right to dictate what is best for myself or my child. We belong with Draco. And I'm sure you really are a capable healer, Fergus," she added, with rather a dirty glance in his direction, "but I insist on handling Draco's care by myself. I've been doing just fine so far without you."

Fergus raised his eyebrows, and with a mini-glance at Draco, who was struggling violently against his bonds, he said quietly, "Have you?"

"Enough." Lucius shot warning glances at both Fergus and Astoria, who looked ready to spit flame. "Draco, calm yourself. You will come—"

"—_I swear to god I'm going to fuck you up when I get loose_—"

Lucius frowned at him, then turned to Fergus. "What would happen if we Stunned him and then disapparated with him?"

"More of a chance of splinching, I'm afraid," Fergus sighed. "Perhaps we could Stun and fly him. It may take a few hours but—"

With a scrape of her chair, Astoria suddenly got to her feet and left the room. Draco reacted like a dog with separation anxiety: straining harder at his binds, yelling at her back with a feverish desperation, "Tori? Where the fuck are you going? You just going to leave me here with these psychopaths? You're the one who fucking tricked me here in the first place—what the fuck? Come back! Get—the—fuck—back—here—untie me! _Tori!"_

But she buried her face in her hands and vanished into the sitting room.

Fergus made to follow her, but Hermione jumped up and ran past him. She hadn't a clue what he intended to say, but there was little doubt in her mind that it would include some of his patented blend of tough-love and sneering disdain. Somehow she didn't think he was the right person to deal with this.

Then again, was she?

"Astoria?"

Hermione found her in the armchair, her hands still covering her face, curled in on herself like a lost child. Hermione was half a mind to give her some privacy, they weren't exactly friends after all, and she didn't know how Astoria preferred to be treated at times like these—but as she stood there indecisively trying to figure out what to do Astoria spoke through her fingers.

"They're going to hurt him." Her voice was thick. "They don't know what they're doing. They don't understand he's not himself. He's not like this. He—he didn't mean to hit them, and now that horrible elf is going to make everything worse. I just _knew _Lucius would do something like this, but I went ahead and trusted him anyway."

Hermione bit her lip, then risked getting closer. She knelt beside the armchair and dared to put a hand on Astoria's shoulder; Astoria didn't brush her off, which she took as an invitation to continue. "I know you don't want to be separated," Hermione said gently, "that's understandable, but you've got to realize Lucius is only asking you to stay here because he's concerned about you. And it's only temporary. I don't think it should take longer than a day or two for Draco to stabilize, and… be himself again"—(she nearly grimaced)—"then you'd be able to help him without putting yourself in danger. And"—she swallowed nervously—"I know it's not my place to say anything, but earlier you said yourself that he'd regret all this. He'd remember not being himself. Maybe… it would do the least amount of damage to everyone, including him, if you aren't around when he's… recovering. Coming down off it is going to be the worst part for him. I mean, I don't know him that well, honestly, but I can recognize when someone's carrying around a lot of shame." Astoria raised her head, fixing her hazel eyes—wet with tears—on Hermione's, who steeled herself and added in a rush, "If you're there, and you—you see him like that, or if he does something hurtful by accident, he'd just be making more shameful memories to deal with later, on top of all the rest."

Astoria watched her inscrutably for a moment, as if she couldn't quite believe her ears. "Draco knows I don't judge him," she said at length. "He knows I don't hold it against him."

"Well, even so, I don't know many people who'd be able to handle all of this completely logically," Hermione said carefully. "Especially not… someone with so much pride." She shrugged, grimacing. "It's sort of a Malfoy thing. And Lucius—he wouldn't say it, not in front of Draco, but he understands that. And I think that's the major reason why he wants you to give Draco some space."

Astoria sniffed, wiping her eyes on the palms of her hands. "And you would know, I suppose," she said, and it wasn't sarcastic or scornful—rather, she sounded thoughtful, gazing at Hermione as if through new eyes. She chewed her lip, as if trying to decide whether or not she dared divulge any more, and apparently came to the conclusion that Hermione, being just as hopelessly wrapped up in this mess as she was, was the most logical person she could talk to—a natural ally. So she went on, "I know Draco hates for me to see him like this. I know he hates it more than anything. But I can't bring myself to leave him alone with that horrid elf, especially after he's—after what happened, Fergus isn't going to be gentle—"

"Fergus _is_ a piece of work," Hermione said wryly, "but he does care about them, in his own way. And he's been around Draco since birth—since forever, actually, he's probably dealt with every kind of drama before. If there's anyone who'd be able to handle this situation _without _tacking all sorts of extra baggage on Draco, it'd be him, and I'm sure Draco doesn't care nearly as much about his opinion as he does yours."

Astoria thought about that for a long moment. Then she wiped her face again—more resolutely this time—and stood up, pacing back into the kitchen without another word.

Someone had cast a Silencing Charm on Draco, who was railing against it, his fine cheekbones painted pink from the force of his noiseless shouting. Lucius and Fergus were continuing to debate about ways they could transport him against his will.

"A discreet floo would be safer. If something goes wrong and he tries to escape a thousand feet above the ground—"

"Yes, but we risk tipping off the Floo Network Regulators charged with your monitoring. It may take longer but it would be more prudent—"

"Please leave me alone with my husband."

The men and elf glanced up; Astoria stood there with her wand out, her eyes flicking between them. Neither Lucius nor Fergus moved.

"Please," Astoria repeated, more suppliantly.

Lucius gazed at her for a tense handful of seconds. Hermione knew he suspected she'd disapparate with Draco once they had the room to themselves, but something in Astoria's face must have convinced him otherwise, because he stood up and did as she asked. Fergus was even slower to comply; he eyed Astoria as if she were some shady thug in his doorway, but his inner-elf ultimately won out, and he followed his master out of the room.

Hermione went after them, thinking only of catching up to Lucius to comfort him: the altercation with his son couldn't have been easy and she hadn't missed the strain in his shoulders as he left. But she was waylaid in the hall when she tripped over Fergus, who had paused to listen shamelessly in on Astoria and Draco's conversation. Scandalized, Hermione tried to pull him away, but he fought her, and she fought back—and it didn't take long for her to realize she'd picked a seriously unfair fight. In the end she found herself face-down on the carpet, body-bound and silenced, with the little elf standing on her back, his radar-like ears inclined towards the kitchen, his eyes fixed on a large picture frame hanging on the adjacent wall, in which Astoria and Draco's translucent reflections were visible.

It wasn't melodramatic to say she was _forced _to listen in, too.

"Draco." Astoria reclaimed her seat beside her husband and waved her wand, restoring his voice. She laid a hand atop his, stroking her fingertips over the back of his knuckles.

He glared at her. "Untie me." His voice was hoarse, hardly a scratch of sound.

"I will." Astoria gazed levelly into his black eyes. "Everything is going to be okay. But you have to promise that you'll go with—"

"I don't have to promise anything!" Draco snarled, trying to jerk away from her, but the ropes held him fast.

"Draco." She reached up and slid her hands on either side of his face. He flinched, but as her fingertips stroked soothing circles at the gnashing muscles of his jaw, slowly, almost imperceptibly, he began to relax. "I love you. You know I do. And you know I'd never do anything to hurt you." He regarded her like some wild animal in a snare, waiting for her to strike out. She seemed encouraged by his muteness, unbothered by his expression, and moved closer, resting her forehead against his. He let her. "Trust me, Draco."

He was silent for a long moment. "You're going to leave me, aren't you?" The words were spoken so quietly Hermione almost missed them. Draco did not sound accusatory or paranoid; he did not spit the words at her like a challenge; he sounded exhausted, despairing, resigned and defeated all at once, as if he were fast approaching the end of a long battle, one he was always destined to lose.

Astoria sighed. "If you don't do this—if you don't go with that wretched elf, today, now, or you leave Shorecliff and you don't—you don't _quit_, Draco, then I will. I'll have to. For the baby. He can't grow up like this, and I can't grow old like this. But more importantly than that, _you _can't go on like this. You'll die. And what if, on that day, it's our son that finds your body?"

Something transpired in the room that Hermione missed; perhaps it was something in Draco's eyes that wasn't apparent in his blurry reflection, but something there made Astoria smile, and her tone warm. She pecked him on the nose. "It's a boy. Healer DeGentry did the test a few days ago—I like Scorpius for a name."

Draco snorted with sudden laughter. _"Scorpius?"_

"Oh for god's sake, not you too! Look, the symbol's an 'm,' Draco! He could literally sign papers 'mM'! How could you not want that?"

Draco laughed, and it was certainly the most genuine sound Hermione had ever heard from him. "Fine," he said eventually, when his laughter died out, "fine—I'll go with bloody Fergus."

"You have to promise—"

"Jesus, Astoria, I said I'd go, all right? I'm going. Merlin. And I'll stay out there until I'm clean, but I'm not complying with every damn thing that little shit asks for. Go on, call in that fucking elf. But you'll—you'll join me, won't you?" His voice hedged on anxious again. "You aren't just going to _ditch _me out there—"

"I'll come out just as soon as I'm allowed," Astoria promised. "Tonight, even, if the elf gives the go-ahead—"

"—he won't—"

"Well, I'll definitely come out after a few days, whatever he says," she assured him.

They touched foreheads again, murmuring words that apparently not even Fergus could hear, because at that point he decided to climb off Hermione and undo his spells. There was a chair-scrape from the kitchen and he scurried away like a rat, leaving Hermione lying gormless on the floor; as silently as she could, she leapt up and ran after him, finding him in her armchair pretending to read the paper, which was exactly what _she_ had been planning on doing. With just seconds to spare, she arranged herself on the ottoman and pretended to read the comics the back (a difficult task, considering Fergus kept moving it around just to piss her off).

Astoria rounded the corner, smiling. "Well, he says he'll go!" She paused, catching sight of Hermione crouched over in front of Fergus, and her smile flickered a little. "What are you doing?"

"Oh—oh _us?"_ Hermione pointed between Fergus and herself, trying to ignore the large purple eye glowering scornfully at her from around the paper, "we're just sharing." Fergus tutted audibly and Hermione had to battle down the impulse to shove her fist through the paper and lay another fist into him.

Astoria blinked, then thankfully decided to ignore all the weirdness. "Okay, well, Draco's waiting for you in the kitchen, Fergus."

She left, still looking a bit perplexed, and Hermione rounded on the elf, fully intending to give him an earful, but the expression she found on his face stopped her. He was smiling, and it was one of the only proper smiles she'd ever seen him wear.

"You know, I was skeptical of her," he said, looking at the spot where Astoria had vanished, "and you as well. But I've decided you'll both do." And without another word he tossed the newspaper aside and followed Astoria out.

* * *

Draco went through with it. He wasn't happy about it, that much was evident in the way he slouched up to Fergus and grabbed the elf's ear for disapparation, but he went, and he didn't launch any threats about abandoning his promises, not even when Fergus slapped his hand off and insisted Draco hold on to his wrist instead.

"If you do not eat your pregnancy mash religiously, Astoria, I _shall _know about it," Fergus warned.

It wasn't lost on Hermione that Lucius did not see Draco off. Perhaps he was angrier about being struck by his own son than he'd made out to be earlier. Or perhaps he thought he might return the favor if he clapped eyes on Draco again.

* * *

"Hermione?"

"Need something, Astoria?"

"Please, call me Tori. And actually, I'm just curious, what _is _this thing?"

"This? It's called a television. Here—you turn it on like this, and—there—see?"

"Oh _weird!_ Can they see us?"

"No, it's a one-way thing, sort of like a pensieve, I suppose, except these aren't memories."

"What are they, then?"

"It's like photographs. Moments captured on film. Most all of it is fictional. Staged. Sort of like theater, only with a few differences."

"Like the fact that they're all Russian?"

"Oh god, is it _still _on that bloody channel? No, you can get television in most every language. See? This one is English."

"Ha! 'What's a peddle-stool?' Oh my god, this thing is hilarious! I've _got_ to surprise Draco with one of these."

"Merlin, _please_ let me be there when it happens. The look on his face will be priceless."

* * *

Lucius had vanished. He may have even left the flat, Hermione hadn't been sure: she'd spent all day with Astoria, first introducing her to the wonders of muggle electronics, then muggle clothing (she'd playfully tried on a few of the items in Hermione's bicultural wardrobe, and they'd had a good laugh at that since she couldn't fit anything around her bulging stomach), then food (she'd been especially fond of Cadbury eggs and lamented the sweets Fergus had destroyed), then just muggles in general. Though there was no physical resemblance between the two, Astoria reminded her a bit of Ginny: spirited and snarky and remarkably open. Hermione found herself chatting easily with her, more so than she could remembering doing with Ginny, actually, if only because Astoria was a better listener, and a little less self-centered, _and_ perhaps a touch less incendiary, too. And she hadn't been at all derisive of muggles, except perhaps where their healthcare was concerned: Hermione could hardly talk her through orthopedics without her bursting into laughter. Still, it was much less than she'd expected from Draco Malfoy's chosen wife.

Hermione decided she liked her.

In Lucius' absence, it seemed the plan for the day was preoccupation, since there'd be no moving forward without him. Anyway, it was clear Astoria needed some distraction, and Hermione didn't blame her: today had been stressful for everyone and Hermione could tell she was used to burying herself in her work to keep her mind off things. In the absence of her go-to diversion, she was walking the knife's edge of insanity. _Sort of like me._

Eventually Astoria retired to the guest bedroom for an early night. As Hermione had quickly deduced, her pregnancy was not easy, nothing like Ginny's. More than once Hermione caught her wincing and leaning into a wall or chair to steady herself from a sudden pain or dizzy spell, rubbing gentle circles into her belly. At one point in the middle of a conversation, Astoria's face had lit up, and she'd grabbed Hermione's hand and forced it against the region of her navel, gasping, "Oh my god, he's kicking—this _never_ happens—look, feel!" And Hermione had experienced a little upwelling of wonder as a tiny foot, the foot of Draco Malfoy's son, butted against the palm of her hand.

It was surreal.

Now, about an hour after Astoria had retired, Hermione was ready to crawl out of her skin. Lucius was still nowhere to be found. Where on _earth_ had he gone? She had no way to contact him and she didn't even know where to begin looking—what if he'd tried going back to the Manor for some reason and had been captured by Raleigh? What if he'd done something drastic in the wake of his altercation with Draco, like gone off to Shorecliff to finish the fight? The possibilities were endless, each one worse than the last, and Hermione had eventually succumbed to a glass of wine and _Tired Ramparts _to soothe her raging nerves.

Unfortunately reading wasn't coming as naturally as it used to. After scanning a few pages with zero comprehension she set the book aside and picked up the catcalling card Lucius had left on the coffee table, turning it over in her hands, wondering what on _earth_ she was supposed to say to Ink that would convince him to relax a little around her—or rather, around her in Narcissa's skin. She supposed she could prepare for the encounter while waiting on Lucius; the Polyjuice could do with freshening, it couldn't hurt to add a bit more boomslang for potency, and she _could_ go find more clothing to fit her body while disguised… but then, she didn't _want _to be reminded of all the ugliness that still lay ahead of them. With a disgruntled huff she tucked the card into her pocket and returned to her book, taking another sip from her glass, and resigning herself to wait on that damnable man to return.

"I'm impressed."

She nearly fell out of her armchair. Her book hit the floor and a bit of merlot splashed onto the armrest, leaving a depressingly deep stain.

He was standing there in the mouth of the vestibule, looking crisp and cool as ever, his outer robes tucked over his arm, a slight smile on his dusky pink lips. The bruise beneath his eye was gone, healed hours ago, no doubt before he'd left. "Merlin's pants, Lucius, you scared me! How do you move without sound like that!?"

His smile grew as he settled himself languidly on the couch, carelessly tossing his robes over the back. "It's called _grace_, my dear, though I understand why it's an unfamiliar concept to you." He glanced at the stain from her spilt wine.

"Oh _please_." She cleaned the mess with a quick wand-flick and returned to her book, with every intention of continuing to read—but her memory niggled, and she glanced up again, eyeing him suspiciously. "What are you impressed about?"

He cocked his head at her. "You convinced Astoria to stay."

"Well it made sense. She shouldn't be putting all this extra stress on herself." Hermione paused. "It's not easy for her."

Lucius' eyes narrowed discerningly. "No, it's not." He gestured, curling his fingers towards her. "Come here."

Hermione hesitated. "Where were you?"

"Would you be terribly upset if I told you I'd gone and sat in a park and tossed breadcrumbs at pigeons for five hours?"

Hermione recalled suddenly the way he'd swallowed after Draco said he hated him. "No, actually." She stood up, crossing the room and settling into his welcoming arms. She knew he probably wasn't serious about the pigeons, but also that it hadn't been too far off the mark: his wanderings, wherever they'd gone, had been aimless, more to keep himself moving through the turmoil than to achieve anything. And she knew, instinctively, that he didn't need to talk about what had happened with Draco. Not right now, anyway. She placed her hands on the firm expanse of his chest and nuzzled her head under his chin, not second-guessing whether she'd be allowed, not concerned with rejection.

Lucius moved into her touch without hesitation. Their bodies settled into a natural, delectably comfortable arrangement, his arms around her, her hands moving against him, feeling along aimlessly, breathing each other in. "You impress me," he quietly reiterated. "I received word from Fergus—Draco really is staying. He may have done some irreparable things to the walls and furniture, but he has not tried to escape. Astoria has convinced him, at least for now." He tilted his head, and it seemed his eyes were boring into the bare bones of her soul. "You've helped me. You've helped me save my son. You've saved him twice—from the Fiendfyre and from himself." He paused again, and his voice became something almost ethereal, cossetting, a deep crooning cradlesong. "And you've saved me."

She could not say specifically what he was referring to, perhaps the War, perhaps something deeper, but it seemed not to matter. Somehow she understood, and she gave him her gentlest, most sincere smile, a wordless acceptance of his tacit thanks. That seemed only to intensify whatever he was feeling; a crease appeared between his brows and he looked at her in near-confusion, and she could see her reflection in the endless gray, the same expression, the same sort of almost-wonder of orgasm.

He slid his bare fingers under her chin, tilting her up, pressing a shallow kiss to her lips. It was hardly a touch at all, and to her supreme disappointment he pulled back when she tried to deepen it, ignoring the insistent clutching of her hands at his jaws. Their eyes locked, searching, and it happened—for the first time in her life, Hermione had one of _those moments_, those moments when the other person is all you can see, all you can understand, as if the world around them had become an old painting left in the rain, blotted and slurred. Something indescribable happened in the cavity of her chest, something almost unpleasant, a kind of painful deepening, as if something large were forcing its way into her, caving her out, twisting in her throat. She was struck by how near he was, how soft those marble eyes had become when they looked at her, how remarkably different he looked overall, now, from the deadened black-and-white photograph in her work folder. He was so human—so lovely—the pain in her chest arced, hit a pitch that made her eyes water, brought her almost to tears. Not with sadness, not even really with happiness: this was something different, a whole other animal entirely, and she couldn't make heads or tails of it.

It was terrifying.

Lucius swallowed again, and a shadow passed through his eyes, something like her own panic, and he pulled her abruptly to him, tucking her under his chin, embracing her whole, snapping off the eye-contact. "I apologize for leaving without first speaking to you," he said; the vibrations of his voice thrummed through her chest. "I assumed I could be afforded some time to… clear my head now that Astoria has agreed to remain here for the time being. It would be unwise to take the Polyjuice and contact Ink with her in the flat. From what Fergus said, she should be able to join Draco the day after tomorrow."

Hermione was almost relieved at the change of subject. The atmosphere at reached a ringing, shimmering intensity that she simply did not know how to cope with, as she'd never read any books on the matter. _Note to self: research chest pain in relation to eye-contact with tragically gorgeous men. _"I suppose she might object to my impersonating Narcissa," Hermione mused, sliding her hand up the strong expanse of his back and curling the end of his plait around her finger. "She's worked out that you and I aren't strictly platonic and she didn't seem troubled. But the catfishing _may_ strain her tolerance."

Lucius hummed, and she could almost feel him close his eyes, leaning into her, and their height difference was such that she had to arch her back to rest her cheek on his shoulder but there was no discomfort; they sat like that for Christ knew how long, and at one point Hermione opened her eyes a sliver and spotted Astoria tiptoeing back down the hall with a glass of orange juice in her hands. She paused to give Hermione a very smug look before scurrying off, but Hermione, so drunk on Lucius' scent, so consumed by the odd constriction in her chest and throat, didn't even care.

By happy coincidence, Lucius then decided to take her someplace more private, scooping her into his arms and hauling her off to her bedroom. As soon as they were behind a closed and locked door, silencing spells cast on all walls, Hermione shucked all propriety and drew her wand, waving it over him and ridding him of his clothes before he could insist on doing anything to her. She _needed_ to see him again, all of him, just to convince herself it hadn't all been a wild hallucination, and she'd be damned if he tried to slip away without her getting her due fill.

He stood there naked and lunar and godlike before her, always so self-assured, so supremely poised and ready, giving her that look he wore so well, equal parts sex and mischief and predatory want; she couldn't help but fall to her knees and pull him into her mouth, sucking and pulling and laving him until he was panting and trembling against her with his hands wound tight into her hair. All those people who dared suggest that the female form was more pleasing to men than the male form was to women had clearly never seen such a well-made cock; she slid the straight thickness down her throat, testing her own ability to take him all, feeling the ridges of the head rub deep within, and—yes, she had, her lips were pressed to the tickling hairs at the base of him, and he made a noise—god, she wished she could always make him gasp like that, he was so awfully quiet otherwise. Compared to him she felt monstrously noisy, but there was no controlling all her sighs and gasps and non-stop moaning; she hadn't even thought to try.

As she battled down the reflexive urge to choke, she must've swallowed around him, or done something similar, because he _moaned _and it was so glorious that it made the discomfort well worth it. At a certain point, however, air became necessary (god damn her weak lungs, did they not understand that all she needed was cock? Her body could be so selfish sometimes, honestly) and with a gasp she pulled him out. Almost immediately, however, she plunged him back in and relished the shallow thrusts he was beginning to make into her ministrations. She could feel him twitching against her tongue the instant she'd taken him in, pulsing with every swirl and swipe, and she knew it wouldn't be long before he spilt; all the pent-up emotions were wreaking havoc on his usual stoicism, poor man. Well, actually, she really didn't pity him, it was mouthwateringly clear he was relishing every second of this, but she knew men could be so very touchy when it came to endurance. More fools they: she might not be able to talk for everyone, but there were few things more satisfying than watching and feeling and hearing a man come soon after you'd wrapped them in your lips. She took it as a sign that she'd done something wonderfully right.

But as ever, Lucius had his own agenda. He pulled her off suddenly and yanked her to her feet, bringing her in for a brief, dizzying kiss that bruised her lips, then tossing her up onto the bed. He didn't bother to locate his wand, but manually pulled her trousers and pants off and threw them aside, leaving her shirt intact, too impatient to deal with it. He climbed onto the bed after her and positioned her sharply so that she was forced to crouch on her elbows and knees in front of him, completely exposed. He was being even rougher than usual, one hand leaving fingerprints on her hip, the other applying an anvil-like pressure between her scapulae. She squirmed and he stilled her, pressing harder, and she might've been indignant had she not been distracted by something hot and hard and unmistakable grazing the tender flesh between her legs.

"I'm not quite sure if you're ready," he said, a teasing cadence to his voice. "I do hate to impose. I'll just wait for you to ask, then, shall I?"

She made a violent noise into the duvet. Bastard. He _knew _she was ready: she was sopping all down her thighs, the entirety of her cunt had fanned out to accept him and her clit was so hard she could probably use it to cut diamond, her nipples were visible even through her shirt and bra and if _all __that _hadn't been enough to tip him off, the way she was trying to lower herself onto him even despite his iron grip should've done the job.

_He just wants to hear me ask for it,_ she thought darkly. _Well, I've got more pride than that, Lucius Malfoy_.

He must've heard her thoughts, because he began to move off her, the smooth scorching heat of his cock abandoning her aching sex, and somehow words began to form in her mouth, entirely at their own behest.

_"__Oh god no, please, please Lucius"_—she grabbed behind her, clawing at his hips, trying to draw him back—_"don't you dare!"_

Suddenly all playfulness was gone, and he pressed his torso down on her, his hand moving from her back to her neck, his chest flush against her curved spine, and his voice snapped harsh in her ear: "Ask me."

_Beg me_, her mind translated for her. Merlin, she wanted to, she almost did; it too a huge effort not to blurt the words in a slur of need. _Why _did he do this to her? She'd never gotten so deliriously caught up with any other man. But now was not the time for thinking; she'd have to evaluate it later when she was sober. Lucius could be a hell of a drug.

"Lucius," she breathed, "if you don't fuck me now, I'll wait until you're asleep and preform an _Erecto _on you and one way or another, I will make it happen."

He breathed out a soft laugh. "I suppose it was foolish of me to expect any submission from you." His hand roved her flank, slapped her sharply once, hard. "Always so bossy." She flinched, and in her momentary surprise he acted. A single piston of his hips and he was in, the width of his cock prying her apart and he hit deep, deep enough for pain, but the completion was a perfect counterbalance: she groaned in acquiescence and bucked into him, and then they'd found their cadence, the natural beat she'd only ever found with Lucius, and a mad thought skittered across the haze of her mind, the thought that she could do this her whole life and never tire of it—

His hand snuck down around her hip and began massaging her sex in vertigo-inducing circles, moving rhythmically with the tight slide of his cock inside her, and in no time she was thrashing, her orgasm poised just _there_, oh, she was _just right there—_

But he stopped, suddenly, steadying her, and she teetered on the maddening edge, despairing as it slowly, slowly slipped away. Honest to Merlin, she _almost _killed him.

"Lucius,_ what in the fuck—?!"_

"Is that an owl?" He was looking at the window, his jaw clenched. "I heard something—"

There was a pounding on the bedroom door. Hermione struggled up onto her hands and knees, then almost collapsed again in delirium when Lucius' hips gave a little involuntary thrust against her, and her sex sang a tragic half-hymn, half-dirge as it skirted orgasm a second time. He looked just about as tortured as she did, but when the knock sounded again, more frantic this time, he pulled himself out. The painful emptiness he left behind had to be the most depressing thing she'd felt in awhile.

"Astoria," he said quietly. Then, looking at Hermione in despair: "Clothe me again."

She took a moment to cast a longing look over him before picking up her wand to do as he asked. He glittered with a sheen of perspiration, painted with a rosy blush over his cheekbones and down the line of his sternum; he was breathing shallowly and unevenly and his cock throbbed visibly where it hung between his firm thighs, red and wet and hard and unsatisfied. If she could just—

The knock came again, but it was interspersed with a higher sound, a tapping on the window. "There _is _an owl—"

"Hermione, my clothes—"

She groaned as she covered him up again. He looked highly uncomfortable as he watched her pull her own clothes back on, then—as Hermione went to deal with the bird at the window—he opened the door and admitted a very somber-looking Astoria.

"What's—"

"The baby," she said, cutting him off. Both of her hands were on her stomach, and her face was pale, highlighting the soft spattering of freckles.

"What—"

"The baby's coming."

Lucius stared at her. "Shit," he muttered, his mouth pressing into a flat line, "you're only—"

"He's a little early," Astoria muttered. She was calm, just as she had been when Draco had come at her in the kitchen; undoubtedly the life of an emergency healer had given her above-average coping skills when it came to stress. "About five weeks. We'll just have to call the Knight Bus and hope their driving has improved since the last time I used them."

"Is there an overnight bag—?"

"I hadn't thought to pack one this early," Astoria said. Then she winced and clutched her belly, leaning into the doorframe, and Lucius hurried in to support her. "They're already getting bad," she told him. "We'd better hurry."

Lucius glanced over his shoulder at Hermione, who'd let in the owl and was frantically unrolling the note she'd pried off it. There were dents and beak-marks on the outer sections of the muntin and one of the lower panes was cracked; apparently the bird had been trying insistently to get through the window for some time. "Oh Merlin," Hermione said, staring at the scroll, "oh, no, not _now_—"

"What is it?" Lucius asked sharply, tightening his grip on Astoria as she went through another contraction.

"Ginny," Hermione said, crumpling the little paper, "she's gone into labor—"

"Oh for the love of _god_," Lucius snapped, "what's happened? Did the moon turn its phase too hard this month?" He glanced at Astoria and back. "Well, go on, then—join your friends. No doubt we'll run into each other before the night's out."

"Lucius," Hermione stammered as he began to support Astoria into the hall. He paused, frowning at her, and behind his back Astoria gave Hermione a wry little smile at the use of his given name, despite her condition. "What about Draco?"

"I'll send for him later," Lucius said, with a brooding look. "Not now, he isn't well."

"Okay." Hermione swallowed. "I'll—I'll try to find you."

He nodded, once, then hurried off with his arms around his daughter-in-law.

And for the first time since moving in, Hermione was left truly alone in her flat.

* * *

**A/N****: This chapter was the most difficult thing I've ever written, and I once wrote a ten-page paper on the zebra butterfly. I always feel, with every passing update, that there's a huge drop in the quality of my writing (not that I've ever been terribly confident in it) but here it was especially bad. Like, taking-a-triple-shot-of-vodka-and-going-"Whoo!"-when-I'd-finally-finished bad. Oh, I don't know, maybe I'm just shite with emotions.  
**

**Also, you'll likely all be pissed to learn I've altered Chapter 2.**

**I didn't do much, just added a segment about Aery Derry at the very beginning. Because ****_fuck my life _****for not properly explaining the god-damned title of the fic on the first go-round. I went back and forth about the addition for weeks, but ultimately I decided it was necessary. If you think it's just stupid and you want to know why I thought it was worth the disruption, pm me or leave a scathing review, and I'll do my very damnest to explain! I realize I may lose readers for this, but if it's any consolation this is a one-off thing, and that segment ****_had_**** to happen.**


	20. Chapter 20

_"I'm here, I'm here!"_

Hermione burst into St. Mungo's in a state of complete disarray: hair wet, shirt backwards, handbag just clinging to her wrist. She found herself facing down the entire Weasley family, all except Molly, who had obviously accompanied her daughter and Harry into the delivery room. Though it had set her another half-hour behind, she'd showered and changed before leaving, paranoid that they'd be able to somehow smell Lucius on her; it was ridiculous of course, they weren't bloodhounds for god's sake, but she supposed with a conscious as guilty as hers any little peace of mind was worth it.

Panting, she addressed the sea of redheads as a whole: "Is the baby here yet?"

"Nope." George yawned and checked his watch. "It's been about five hours and no cigar. We're all taking bets on whether it'll pop out before next Tuesday."

"Shouldn't be much longer," Arthur tagged on with a wan smile. "James only took about six, so we're keeping the champagne at the ready!" What was left of his hair had gone gray, and his face had slouched with age, but there was normally a cheerful spark in his eye, present even during Ginny's first delivery—but not tonight. Tonight he looked flustered.

Hermione felt a swooping in her gut. _Oh god, is it the baby? Is Ginny doing Catherine Earnshaw somewhere in this white-tiled death trap!?_ "What's wrong?"

Arthur shook his head. "Nothing."

"Yeah, only that that git Lucius Malfoy was just in here," Ron said, thrusting a thumb down one of the halls. Hermione took careful note of the exact one.

"Oh, really?" she said, faking ignorance. "Why?"

"He had some pregnant woman with him, looked about to burst. Didn't pay any attention to us but he still stunk up the place," Ron scoffed. "Probably she's just some whore of his delivering a bastard."

Hermione experienced a moment of vertigo as all of her blood seemed to rush into her face. With a massive effort she refrained from jamming her shoe down Ron's throat.

"Harry said he wrote you hours ago," Percy chipped in, frowning at her. His wife, Audrey, was trying to keep a hold on a squirming James, who'd already ripped out a fistful of her hair and was trying to go back for afters. "Where've you been?"

Hermione did her best to look innocent. "I didn't notice the owl. I was busy"—_screaming like a banshee while Lucius rode me into next week_—"reading."

"Ginny told us to send you on when you arrived," Charlie said. "She's in Room 88."

_Well, at least Ginny and Astoria are down the same hall. It'll be a touch easier to sneak away._ Trying not to think about why exactly childbirth was classified as an "Artifact Accident" by St. Mungo's standards, Hermione sprinted to the correct room and threw open the door.

"I'm here!" she repeated, smiling this time.

All was peaceful serenity within. Ginny was sitting front-to-back in a chair, eyes closed and her arms crossed over the toprail; Harry was seated behind her, firmly massaging her sacral muscles; and Molly was knitting in a lounger by the window and looking decidedly disgruntled—probably because she didn't like the idea of Harry being present for the delivery. Apparently she hadn't been when James had been born, either, but hadn't objected to his face: she was much too fond of him for that. When she spotted Hermione, her scowl melted into a smile, and she set a pair of half-formed booties aside to beckon Hermione over for a warm embrace.

"We thought surely the baby would beat you here!" Molly sang. Then held Hermione out at arm's length and gave her a critical eyeballing. "You're looking a bit thinner than usual. Not still under the weather, are you, dear?"

"I—I've actually been feeling a little better, thank you," Hermione said, tucking a curl anxiously behind her ear.

"How's Crookshanks?" Harry asked, though he kept his eyes on his wife.

Hermione hesitated. _Liar, liar._ "He's been… I've been wanting to stay home with him a little more, but work has really started to pile up and Belby's been really insistent lately—"

"Could we please not talk about _work?"_ Ginny hissed through her teeth. "I've got to push another human being out of my vagina at some point tonight, and I'd like to do it without thinking about all the fucking articles I've got due before next Friday."

Molly _tsk_ed. "There's no need for talk like that. Swearing will make for a fussy baby, you know."

Hermione burst out laughing. Everyone looked at her. "Sorry," she said, sobering at once. "Is there anything I could do for you, Ginny?"

For the next few hours she, Harry and Molly took turns walking Ginny around the room, lending her support while she battled increasingly severe contractions. As the third hour came to a close, a single, frazzled-looking healer finally made an appearance; as he kicked the door shut behind him Hermione caught the tail-end of an agonized scream from somewhere down the hall—a scream in a horribly familiar voice.

"Sorry," the healer said, "it's been mad tonight. Now, let's see how dilated you are."

Molly looked scandalized as the man reached for her daughter. "Are there any _female _healers we could get in here?"

The man frowned. "We've got one who's brilliant with childbirth, but unfortunately she's just down the hall in labor herself." His voice was light but his eyes were grim. Hermione felt like she'd been smacked round the face with a frying pan. "The rest are already engaged with other patients. You'll just have to make due with me for the time being."

"Um," Hermione cut in, as Molly opened her mouth again, "I've got to run to the loo."

"Go ahead," Harry said (also eyeing the healer with a frown), "we'll be fine here."

It was easy finding Astoria. Her cries were emanating from the room at the very end of the hall, hoarse and warped with pain, and from the same room Hermione could see droves of mediwitches bustling in and out, some of them toting armfuls of towels stained with bright red blood.

_Oh god,_ she thought, running for the door, _oh god oh god oh god—_

It looked like the Final Battle. People—healers—were swarming everywhere like bees in an upturned hive, some clutching bottles of dittany and blood-replenishing potion, others manically casting spells. Everyone seemed to be caught up in a state of perpetual motion, all except for the solitary figure at Astoria's bedside, black-clad from head to foot as if he were already mourning and clutching her white hand firmly in his own.

"Miss," said one of the healers, spying Hermione, "you can't be in here."

She tried frantically to draw Lucius' attention, desperate for some clue as to what was happening and perhaps also looking for reassurance, or even just needing him to _look at her god damn it_—and finally he did, right after the healer spoke, but it was just a small twitch of his eyes and he broke the connection almost as soon as it was made. In those bottomless grays she could see nothing but agony.

She hadn't got the chance to fully absorb his pain, and he didn't turn from Astoria again to give her another, even though Hermione was sure she was still visible in his peripherals. She could glean nothing from the icy mask of his expression, either—only that it was the same he'd worn while Draco had screamed at him.

Astoria, too, met her eyes briefly, and whether or not she recognized Hermione couldn't be said. She _did_ seem to feebly lift her hand for a moment, as if to beckon—but then the hand balled itself into a fist and her eyes snapped shut once again as she groaned out a noise of such profound suffering that Hermione felt nauseated listening to it.

Her heart ached. She wanted to go to them. She wanted to clutch at Astoria's hand, brush the sweaty bangs off her head, let her know that she wasn't so alone in this. And she wanted to hold Lucius. Never had she wanted to hold someone so intensely as then. But like a wraith on a doorstep, she realized she couldn't break into the fragile scene without being asked.

And Lucius was turned away from her, silent, aloof.

He was ignoring her. Shutting her out.

A second later the healer moved, blocking him from view. Numbly, Hermione allowed herself to be ushered back into the hall like a sheep on a tether. Her immediate emotional reaction was despair. Lucius was pushing her away, he didn't want to be seen associating with her in public, wouldn't let her try to comfort Astoria, didn't want to turn to her for support, didn't want her anywhere near them—didn't want _her_ anymore.

But by the time the healer left her standing alone by a broken drinking fountain, she'd already reverted to her most trusty defense mechanism: logic. Obviously he had ignored her, not because he'd suddenly decided to distance her, but because there were dozens of pairs of eyes on them and no godly explanation as to why_ she_, Hermione Granger, would purposefully be anywhere near him or his daughter-in-law. The sight would spark gossip, and gossip traveled like Fiendfyre in the wizarding world—she didn't doubt it would get back to her friends before they'd even left the hospital.

She didn't pause to wonder if she was mistaken. Almost as soon as it had appeared, her anguish vanished in favor of a rampant anxiety. Astoria groaned from within her room, and it was god-awful to stand there pretending like she didn't care. The helplessness—the fear—it made her sick beyond words. Lucius' tormented eyes swam before her eyes alongside Astoria's pallid, straining face. If there was some way… some way she would be able to help…

"Hermione?"

She blinked out of her trance. Down the hall, Molly had poked her head out of Room 88 and was beckoning. "Come along—hurry—they've said she can start pushing!" And she ducked back in, leaving Hermione to walk, zombie-like, away from one half of her life and back into the other.

* * *

"You're doing great!"

_"Don't you bloody patronize me, Harry Potter!"_

"S-sorry—"

_"Oh Merlin I hate you so fucking much right now—!"_

"Ginny, please watch your mouth—"

"DON'T YOU FUCKING TELL ME WHAT TO WATCH MUM, DON'T YOU DARE—"

Hermione stood just inside the doorway, wringing her jacket between her hands and gazing on with a slight grimace as Ginny fought her way through the crowning. She, like Astoria, was soaked through with sweat, but there was a healthy color in her cheeks (in fact she was practically blazing) and nothing at all weak about the way she clung to her mother and husband, if their expressions were anything to judge off. From where she stood, Hermione couldn't see anything of the actual birthing, and thank god for that, she didn't think she could deal with much more gore tonight.

No, she definitely felt like scheduling a tubal ligation after tonight.

Just a few more minutes (or was it actually another half-hour?) of the swearing and arguing and gnashing of teeth, and the room was suddenly filled with a harsh, earsplitting wail. The sound melted Ginny's furious expression right off her face and she immediately extended her arms to accept the small, slimy, writhing _thing_ from the attending mediwizard.

"Oh my god," Harry said, his glasses askew, his face creasing with emotion, _"Ginny—"_

"It's a boy," one of the healers announced whilst the others began to tidy the room. "Mr. Potter, if you'd like to sever the cord…"

Harry drew his wand and, with a flick, the deed was done. "He's beautiful," Molly said through copious tears, "oh, he's gorgeous Ginny, look at all that black hair—"

Ginny choked out a laugh. "Another boy—"

"Could be you'll have to try seven times for a girl!" Molly giggled. She missed the look of horror on Harry's face but Hermione caught it, and on any other occasion she would've cracked a grin, but she'd never felt less like smiling just then.

"Hermione, dear," Molly said, waving her over, "come and meet baby Arthur!"

Both Ginny and Harry froze. "Yeah," Ginny said slowly, "about that, mum—"

"We aren't quite done here," the healer cut in, shouldering his way between Molly and Ginny. "Mummy still has a bit of work to do, so if daddy would like to take baby over for a wash, there's a table set up—"

"Yes, let's give you a bath!" Harry scooped up his new son and practically ran out of the battle zone. "Hermione, can you help me?"

His tone brooked no argument. As she scurried over she did her best to ignore the whispered conversation Ginny was now having with her mother.

"He's wonderful, Harry," Hermione said mandatorily, gazing down at the newest Potter as Harry wiped him clean. And really, she _was _happy for them—it's just that she knew Harry hadn't asked her over to help. He was going to question her; she could feel it crackling like static in the air between them. And she knew why. Normally she would've sobbed her way through the whole delivery and fussed over the resultant little reptile, just like she had with James, and while Ginny and Molly were too wrapped up to care about her reactions, Harry was a bit more perceptive.

It took him a while but finally the question was posed. "Anything wrong?" Though he was grinning down at his son when he said it, Hermione could feel the weight behind the question.

"No," she said mechanically.

A shadow passed over his face, something between concern, disappointment and maybe a little annoyance, too. Hermione felt a peal of fear roll down her back. Merlin, did he know? How could he _know?_ Would he go on questioning her? Would she go on lying? Could she?

But Harry didn't seem interested in pursuing an interrogation, thank Godric. He just went back to gazing in lovestruck wonder at the little creature-miracle he had helped create, and it _should _have come as a relief, but actually it made Hermione even more uneasy because the question now dangled between them, unanswered and unaddressed: what did he _know?_

When the infant was fairly vernix-free Harry bundled him up in soft blankets and returned to Ginny, who had given up trying to reason with Molly and was now looking as if she'd like to hang herself.

"Ginny, really now, I can understand Albus, but _Severus_—?"

"Let's go introduce him to his aunts and uncles," Harry suggested, breaking off Molly's diatribe. Ginny gave him a grateful smile which he returned before heading out the door to make the grand announcement.

* * *

Harry's arrival triggered a happy kind of disaster in the waiting room. Arthur finally got to pop the cork on the champagne, though it had gone warm and most everyone gagged on it. Hermione stood apart from the revelries, watching with a fixed smile she was sure looked somewhat demented, doing her best not to rip out her own hair or scream with frustration. Elsewhere in the hospital, people were suffering—people she cared about incongruously but deeply. They were suffering and perhaps dying and she was out here pretending to look as jubilant as the rest.

_They_ needed her. The Weasleys and the Potters did not.

It was with this justification in mind that, when Harry was momentarily lost amidst the crush of bodies all eager to hug him, she poured her cup out into a fichus and slipped away—not back down the hall, but out of the hospital and into the night.

* * *

Hermione impressed herself with how quickly she was able to get back. Under the shield of the shitty DMLE Invisibility Cloak, sneaking through the waiting room was almost too easy. As she scurried past Room 88 she overheard several of the Weasleys complaining loudly about the baby's new name.

It was quiet as a crypt in Astoria's room. The maelstrom of activity from earlier had died down to almost nothing: there were only two healers present now, one on either side of Astoria's bed, and Lucius was nowhere to be found.

Hermione peeked around the doorjamb with growing horror. Astoria looked dead. Her skin had turned gray and aside from the shallow breaths lifting her chest, she was completely still. One of the attendant healers was intoning healing spells; the other was tending an IV bag full of what looked like blood-replenishing potion and scribbling on a parchment. By timing it just right, Hermione was able to slip into the room and out from under the cloak simultaneously without either of them noticing.

Her first attempt to speak came out as more of a rodent sound, but it nevertheless got the healers' attention; she tried not to blush at their joint bewilderment as she cleared her throat and started again.

"Is she all right?"

"Aren't you Hermione Granger?" one of them asked.

Hermione scowled at her. "Yes, and—and I'm a friend, and I would like to know if she's all right."

"We're not at liberty to discuss anything with you," the other said, glaring at her. "Anyway I've never heard Tori mention you before."

Hermione could've throttled him. After a few steadying breaths she affixed a look of deep concern on her face (not a difficult task under the circumstances) and tried again: "Please, I'm just worried about her and the baby."

The healers exchanged looks.

"We think she'll be fine," said one, "she's stable now, anyway."

"The baby's in critical condition," said the other. "They've taken it upstairs."

Hermione swallowed. "And Mr. Malfoy?"

"Left, didn't he? And we don't know where he's gone, so don't ask."

* * *

It took her twenty minutes of shambling around under the cloak, but Hermione finally found him keeping vigil just outside the neonatal unit, sitting in a chair of his own conjuring and brooding at the locked double-doors across the hall—through which, it seemed, sound did not pass, because in the stark silence her own quiet breathing became a veritable hurricane of noise.

As she walked towards him, his head snapped around in her direction, and he glowered like some startled predator at the empty space she occupied, his eyes flickering and almost reflective in the half-light. He must've spotted her through one of the cloak's numerous holes because when he drew his wand, the tip was aimed directly at the center of her chest.

"Show yourself," he growled.

The sight was so alarming, so reminiscent of their ugly history, Hermione's diaphragm seized up and for a terrifying few seconds she couldn't speak. It was only as he opened his mouth to launch a threat or perhaps a killing curse that the spasm passed.

"It's me," she gasped, "it's just me!"

It took him only a heartbeat to recognize her voice. "God damn it, Hermione." He tucked his wand away and slumped back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. His voice was aggrieved. _"Never_ sneak up on me like that again."

"Sorry." Nobody else was around, in fact she couldn't hear a soul moving on the whole floor, but still, she didn't feel safe enough to take off the cloak: someone could come bursting out of the neonatal unit at any moment. Moving silently as she could, she got to within arm's reach of him and, initially, she'd planned on offering up a montage of comforting words—but looking down into his cold face now, she found all the things she'd been about to say tasted flat and empty and, frankly, ignorant. She hadn't thought of a backup plan, either; the result was her standing over him gaping like some confused toddler at the zoo looking in on a particularly frightening exhibit.

Thankfully he couldn't see her, and he chose that moment to speak. "They wouldn't let me in." His voice was low, dangerous. He hadn't glanced over to look for the holes in her cloak and verify her position, but somehow, in that sixth-sense way of his, he knew she was near.

_Probably the healers don't want you getting underfoot, and that's why they've shut you out,_ she thought sensibly, but thank Merlin she realized these were _not_ the right sentiments for the occasion. Only—what were?

"I'm sorry," she repeated. "That's… that sounds frustrating."

God, normally she had a knack for this sort of thing, but the sleep deprivation must've been catching up because this was _terrible_. She wanted to grab those awkward, stilted words out of the air and shove them back into her mouth. Lucius didn't seem phased, however. In fact he didn't react at all, and given the situation, no reaction was a good reaction.

With the cat still clinging to her tongue, she decided to seat herself, Indian-style, on the floor beside his chair, making sure the cloak covered every inch of her and wondering if she ought to reach out and touch him, maybe soothe a hand down the back of his calf. Perhaps touch would do what words couldn't? But he looked so somber, so imposing, she immediately thought better of it.

After just a few seconds the silence became unbearable, and she had to speak. "What happened?"

"Placental abruption. It happened on that god-forsaken bus and it was causing the bleeding. She went into early labor because of a fluid abnormality—unrelated—polyhydramnios." He ground his teeth. "She was in pain. I kept telling those fools to cast a Numbing Charm but they all insisted it would have done more harm than good." He scoffed. "To whom? Astoria? The child? It did not look as if anything would have made their circumstances worse. And _damn_ those healers. She told them to keep her bed inverted, she said gravity would help with the birthing, but when she fell unconscious they laid her flat again and her condition worsened. And no one would listen to me. Not one of these imbeciles knows how to _listen_. I wanted to strangle the whole lot of them."

There was such malice in his voice that she felt a sudden nervousness, sitting so close, but she soon realized his anger was just misplaced fear. And it was strange, realizing it—he was _afraid_.

She tried to change the subject. "Did you send for Draco? Or—or—"

"No." He spared her the trouble of naming his ex-wife. "Neither of them need to be here now. The healers are not yet sure if the infant… The fewer people involved at this stage, the better." He paused. "Anyway, Draco will have begun to feel the withdrawal by now. It is critical he remain confined over the next few days. He is in no state of mind to handle this situation appropriately." Gray eyes screwed shut a moment; when they opened they were glazed with exhaustion. "Further, I don't know where Narcissa is or how to contact her, nor do I believe I should be the one to do so."

"She's in Arles," Hermione blurted. When Lucius glanced down at her (or rather, in her general direction) with his eyebrow cocked, she would've given anything to have not uttered those words.

"Miss Granger," he said with a sudden drawl, "you surprise me. I had not pegged you for a flagrantly jealous, stalk-my-exes type. Should I be concerned?"

"I'm not jealous!" Despite the gravity of their situation she could see the blatant, black-humored smirk in his eye. It only made her more flustered. Thank god for the cloak, she didn't want to think about the state of her complexion just then. "Only know because—because when I was—when I had to—to question you in disguise, I had to be sure she wouldn't walk in on us, so I waited for her to go on a trip someplace before I… approached you."

He seemed even more amused by that. "When you had to question me… _in disguise_," he repeated, slow and heavily skeptical. "My but you are reaching, aren't you? Come now, there is a word for it, say it with me: _catfish_."

"Well I don't think that's appropriate!" Hermione snapped. "I wasn't trying to—to get in your trousers!"

"No?" Lucius drew out the word with such sickly sweet suggestion, it was a wonder he didn't choke on it. _Ooh, Merlin, _she thought,_ this man—I could shave that fucking eyebrow right off his face and he wouldn't even see it coming. _Then_ let him try to give me that smug look again. Bastard._

Thankfully (for his eyebrow) he dropped that line of teasing there. "Arles," he mused, with a thoughtful glance into the middle-distance, "hmm… odd place for her to go. As far as I know she does not possess any friends or family there." He quirked his lips, then turned suddenly back to Hermione and said, in a dizzying change of pace, "Was Potter very curious as to why you borrowed his cloak?"

Hermione blinked. "It's not his—it's the Ministry's. The DMLE sometimes loans them out to employees."

Lucius' other eyebrow rose to join the first. "Ah. I suppose that's why it's in such poor condition." His smirk returned. "Isn't this a gross misuse of government property, Miss Granger? Not a _pattern_, I hope—exploiting your privilege? And further, won't you be missed downstairs? Terribly rude of you to sneak away from Potter all ninety-five of the Weasleys on such a proud occasion. Surely one of them will notice?"

She flushed a whole new shade of burgundy. Even knowing he was only teasing didn't help; he'd touched much too close to the truth for humor.

She _might _have lost her temper. "If you want me to leave then just say so!"

There was a long silence. She glanced up at him, staring brazenly in her concealment; he looked as if he were choosing his next words with great care. "No," he said at last, "I don't think I will. But then, it is not my place to look after your reputation. I was only expressing my astonishment that your relationship with your friends does not matter more than this."

Her temper fizzled out. Matter more than this? And what was _this_, exactly? What was he suggesting? Or more importantly, what was he trying to get _her _to suggest?

She couldn't beat him at this game, sadly. This subterfuge that Slytherins favored entirely too much. It was all she could do to revert to the truth. "I only wanted to be here," she muttered. "With—with you. Sorry, I just… I'm not trying to hurt anyone."

"Don't apologize," Lucius cut her off. "I'm… It's good you're here. It's—fine. But I cannot imagine any alibi you might tell your friends to explain your absence. I do not believe any of them will understand. Will they?" He looked meaningfully at her (or near enough, anyway).

Hermione thought. "Maybe." She second-guessed. "No."

Lucius cocked his head. "Have they not yet begun to suspect?"

"Well… Luna knows. And I think Harry suspects something, too, but I don't know precisely what."

"And has Ms. Lovegood outed you?"

"She wouldn't do that."

He shifted uncomfortably. "Does… she know about _me_, specifically?"

"Erm… yes. She—she sort of—_guessed_ about you. She doesn't know what we're up to, though. She just knew you were in my flat that day they surprised me with lunch."

His north-sea eyes were deadly grave, but he said nothing, not for a long while. Just as Hermione was considering touching him again—she could feel the heat of him radiating all along her right side, and snuggling into that warmth sounded awfully tempting—the doors of the neonatal unit swung open and a ragged-looking mediwitch emerged, clutching a scroll in one hand and her wand in the other.

"All right, Mr. Malfoy," she said, "the baby's responded very well to the spellwork and we're confident he's going to pull through. You're welcome to come in and see him."

* * *

Scorpius was, without a doubt, the smallest baby Hermione had ever seen. He was ensconced in what looked like a domed viewing case, swathed in periwinkle blue blankets and, though the barrier blocked all sound, it was clear he was screaming at the top of his little lungs. Apparently he _was _taking to the spellwork; she doubted he'd be able to flail quite so vigorously if he was ill or injured. And despite his tininess, he still had quite a bit of hair on his head. White hair. He was definitely a Malfoy.

Lucius was regarding his grandson with something like skepticism, as if he wasn't quite convinced Scorpius was real. He reached out as if to touch the writhing infant, but the case stayed his hand, shimmering with bright gold ripples where his fingertips brushed. "I'm sorry," the mediwitch said, "you won't be able to touch him until the head healer gives the go-ahead. Still, it may not be so long before then. He's got quite a bit of enthusiasm, this one."

_Enthusiasm _wasn't the word Hermione would've chosen, but nevertheless a slow smile unfurled over Lucius' mouth. He waited until the healer had backed off to give him some privacy before he cocked his head in Hermione's direction and muttered, "Oh dear, he doesn't look happy, does he? It appears these accommodations are not up to his standards."

Hermione grinned up at him, though she knew he couldn't see it. "Yes, obviously he's just trying to call down the manager to complain." She nudged him. "Definitely your _petit-fils_, monsieur grand-père."

"Your French is atrocious," he snubbed, but the warmth in his smile took the sting from his words. "And really, Miss Granger, it's terribly rude to eavesdrop." He leaned towards her and—after two attempts—managed to skim the backs of his fingers affectionately over what he must've thought was her arm, but was actually straight down the front of her face.

Still, Hermione thought it was sweet.

* * *

"I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Malfoy, but you cannot stay here."

"Do _not _touch me." Lucius shot the rotund male healer a look of withering distain, jerking his shoulder out from beneath the man's sausage fingers.

He succeeded in almost scaring the man off (Lucius was nothing if not terrifying when angered), but then—apparently because his job hinged on it—the healer tried again, this time going for a more soothing, cajoling angle. "I know you're concerned for her, we all are, but Tori's in the very best of hands and she's already showing rapid signs of improvement. You can come check on her again in a few—"

"I can, and will, do as I please," Lucius growled back. "Now if you would be so kind as to _leave_, I shall forgive your disrespectful intrusion."

The healer dropped all pretenses. "Look, staying in the ward overnight is strictly prohibited, you'll only be in the way and she needs to rest—"

"I am merely sitting here, you fool, how will that prevent her resting? _You _are the one disturbing us."

"I will call security, Mr. Malfoy, don't think I won't!"

Lucius stood abruptly and made as if to launch an attack, but Hermione reached out and grabbed the hem of his sleeve in cloaked fingers, giving him a warning tug back. The healer had, again, backed away, but he was squaring up to Lucius now, his soft chest puffed out, bolstered by the support of what was undoubtedly an entire team of trained security wizards on-staff in the building.

Lucius stood seething a moment, then it seemed to occur to him that being arrested and cast into the street wouldn't benefit anyone, least of all Astoria. So he, too, changed tactics, putting on a show of resignation. "All right," he acquiesced, "I will go. But please, give me just another moment. I need to tell her I will be back, and everything will be okay."

Hermione shot him an unseen look of disbelief. She hadn't really pegged him as the mawkish type—and neither, it seemed, had the healer.

"I'm _really_ going to have to insist you leave," he said bluntly. "_Now_."

Quick as lightning, Lucius changed tack yet again. "Very well," he seethed, "we shall see what the press thinks of St. Mungo's policy of brutally throwing elderly men out into the streets after-hours, when they are only trying to look after their families!"

The healer looked scandalized, but Lucius held fast to his façade of righteous fury and the man finally caved. "You have _five minutes_," he snapped, "and then either you get the fuck out or I'm calling security."

He slammed the door behind him.

_"Elderly?" _Hermione burst out laughing. "Really, Lucius? Not even Rita Skeeter could spin _that _story."

"I did not need it to be believable," Lucius sniffed. "I only needed that imbecile to leave." Then—drawing his wand and casting a quick Silencing Charm—he raised his voice to an authoritative shout and called out, "Harriot!"

The little elf appeared with a crack at his elbow, her back to him. "Master Malfoy?" She spun around, caught sight of him and beamed, dropping into a quick courtesy. "Oh! There you are! What is it you require, sir?" Then her eyes darted to Astoria, and the smile dropped off her face. "Oh dear—"

"How is Draco?" Lucius cut across her.

Harriot peeled her eyes back off Astoria. "Fergus is caring for him," she said nervously. "He—he is—Fergus says that he will be fine in a few days."

Lucius nodded once, tiredly. He seemed to have expected that. "I need you to remain here," he ordered, "and watch over Astoria while she recovers. Do not allow yourself to be seen, and do not leave her side for any reason. You are to report back to me should her condition change." He thought a moment. "Do not overtax yourself."

Harriot trotted over to Astoria's bedside and pulled herself up onto the mattress, settling like some small plush-toy at the foot of her bed. "Begging your pardon, Master, but what's happened to her?" she asked nervously.

"She has delivered the baby early," Lucius supplied. "He is in the neonatal unit. They have declared him stable, but I would like you to check on him periodically as well. He will be the only blonde—"

"Ooh, so she's had the baby?" Harriot squealed. "Fergus will have a fit, he wasn't here for it!" Then she slapped her hands over her mouth and squeaked through her fingers, "Oh! Sincerest apologies, sir—"

Lucius waved it away. "Are your instructions clear?" She nodded, ears flapping. "Good. Thank you. Now hide yourself, and remember, if _anything_ changes, return to me."

Harriot was just crawling under Astoria's bed when the tubby healer barged back into the room, this time flanked by two hard-faced security wizards. "Five minutes are up," he snarled.

Lucius rose to greet them with a cold smile. "And it was all I needed. Thank you—I am perfectly capable of showing myself out."

* * *

"I do not like this."

"Well, we _could_ kidnap them, but I imagine that will only make things worse."

"Don't be facetious."

"Oh come _on_, Lucius. The healers all say Astoria and the baby will be fine—and Astoria did look better than before."

"We should not have left them."

"Well I don't imagine you'd like to stand around in the waiting room with the Weasleys?"

Lucius merely scowled, clenching and unclenching his fists in the middle of her kitchen, very much as if he were crawling out of his own skin. She knew most of his frustration stemmed from his inability to control the situation, but really, if they weren't allowed to wait in Astoria's room (and they weren't, the head healer made that very clear) then it was no use trying to hang around in St. Mungo's until she was able to leave. Hermione knew he understood this, but she'd learned he wasn't necessarily the best at self-soothing.

After a tentative silence, Hermione slid her arms around his waist, rubbing her cheek against the front of his robes. He stood rigidly against her a moment, almost long enough to make her second-guess her actions. Then she felt his large hands smooth up her sides and over her scapulae, pulling her in closer. Her heart fairly exploded in her chest.

"We can check on them in a few hours," she promised, nuzzling closer against him, smiling as he yielded to her.

He sighed. "That does not make me dislike this any less."

She could feel him tensing up again; clearly he was brooding and it was high time for a distraction. As soon as the thought occurred to her, however, her mind suggested the most inappropriate thing possible, recalling her back several hours when he'd pinned her to the bed and steadily fucked her to delirium. She felt a rush of heat between her legs (they'd been interrupted, hadn't they? And wasn't that a tragedy that needed putting right? Really, his cock was _right there_, she could feel it against her stomach even despite his lack of arousal, surely he wouldn't mind if she just….?) but, glancing up into his solemn face, she realized now wasn't the time for such shenanigans, as delectably distracting as they were.

So she said, "Maybe you should get some sleep. You look dead on your feet."

And he did. His shoulders were slumped and there were shadows under his eyes, but despite all that he still managed look unfairly beautiful—in a very haunting, very Dracula-esque sort of way, admittedly. She almost wanted to scoff; she doubted _she _looked as good, in fact she was somewhat grateful she hadn't yet looked in a mirror. Trust him to set another impossible standard by making sleep deprivation sexy.

He frowned. "I don't believe I could bring myself to lie still right now."

"Well, maybe you should eat something."

"I am not hungry."

She tutted. "Then maybe we should use that catcalling card thing."

Silence. He sighed again. "Very well. You will have to transform. He may only be able to hear your voice, but I am sure he will be able to tell if it is not Narcissa's."

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Narcissa Malfoy (or was it Black again?) wandered down Hermione's hallway from her bedroom, barefoot and dressed only in Hermione's fluffy pink bathrobe. She'd been careful to strip and don the garment before taking the Polyjuice, telling herself that although she'd already violated the woman's privacy once, it hadn't _really_ been her fault then, and it definitely wouldn't happen again.

Still, she felt more uncomfortable than she had in a long time. The robe, though knee-length on Hermione, rode up on Narcissa's taller frame, and she kept having to continually adjust the front to make sure it closed all the way to her throat. Beforehand when she'd impersonated the woman she'd always worn dresses that were cut rather modestly, and they'd done a much better job at keeping her concealed, but Hermione couldn't be assed to do up all those lacings again just to talk at Ink over a card. She figured, if all he could do was hear her voice, a robe would do.

She found Lucius in the sitting room, leaning forward on the couch and running the lit tip of his wand over the catcalling card, which he'd laid out on the coffee table. He glanced up when she entered—and his eyes immediately raked over her, lingering over the bits she'd been keen to hide, and in his face she could see a clear, potent, unmistakable desire.

Her stomach hit the floor. Suddenly she wished she'd taken the time to lengthen the bathrobe down to her ankles.

His eyes darted off her quick enough, but that didn't set her insides right. "With some effort I've remembered how to activate this," he said casually, tapping the card with a forefinger. "To speak to him, touch the card with the tip of your wand and say _Loquius_. To cut the connection, simply pull your wand away. It's nearly half twelve in the afternoon, I'm sure he does not possess a dayjob—likely he will accept your call if he has the corresponding card on his person."

When ten seconds passed and she hadn't moved or spoken, his jaw clenched. "Have you decided you'd rather not do this today?" He sounded deceptively light.

"Not at all," she replied, surprised that she could match his insouciant tone, as there was a huge lump in her throat. She supposed Narcissa just _couldn't _sound croaky—no, she was too perfect for that. Swallowing, Hermione drew herself up and settled primly on the couch, as far away from Lucius as possible.

He seemed not to notice, but she knew better. He pushed the card over to her and sat back, still not looking at her. "There you are. _Loquius_."

Suddenly she found his nonchalance infuriating, and she couldn't stop the words tumbling out of Narcissa's mouth. "Why exactly do you know how to use one of these things?"

He looked at her, then, and his gaze didn't waver from her face. His voice hardened. "Because I have used one before."

"Really?" She swallowed again, just managing to suppress the urge to insinuate something rude. Still—"Why?"

His voice took a dangerous edge. "Maybe you should take a nap. You have not slept properly for some time, and you are clearly fatigued. We can always resume this another time."

The anger—once concentrated in her chest—shot to her head like a bolt of white-hot lightning. "I'm _not_ a toddler you can just order to bed," she snapped at him.

"You are certainly acting like one."

She gaped. "You're a real bastard, you know that?"

"Am I?" His eyes narrowed. "I am not the one throwing a tantrum for no reason at all."

She set her jaw and folded her arms tightly across her chest. Yes, Narcissa had been his wife for nearly a quarter of a century, had been courted properly by him, had borne and raised his child with him, and _yes, _it was only natural that he'd looked at her like that—hell, _any _straight male would, especially dressed as she was now. But his innocuous little perusal had reminded her that there was in fact one other woman out there whom he wanted _more _than her—a woman who, Hermione was certain, could very easily swoop in and take him back again, if she felt so inclined. And Hermione had never operated very well with a threat like that hanging over her head.

A part of her, the part not so connected with her emotions, realized she was being childish about the whole thing and was frantically ordering her to backpedal, but another part—the part that sometimes sent flocks of violent canaries after people in fits of jealous rage—had already seized control.

"It was a silly question, I guess," she threw at him. "I mean _why else _would you use one?" As he opened his mouth she grabbed up the card and pulled her wand, speaking loudly over him. "So the charm's _Loquius__?"_

She heard him laugh a cold, humorless laugh full of anger, but he merely said, "That's the one."

Defiantly, she touched the tip of her wand to the card and announced the incantation. The blackness lit up in a sinister shade of dark purple, almost—it seemed to her—ultraviolet, hardly bright enough to illuminate even the surrounding tabletop. Then it began to beep, and with each beep the light pulsed; it reminded Hermione vaguely of waiting for someone to pick up a phone.

And suddenly the light changed, became a frosty pale blue, and a voice spoke from the nether, coming out of the card as clearly as if he were speaking through a tiny open window. "Hullo there."

Hermione froze. She'd been so pissed with Lucius that she hadn't even thought to rehearse any sort of dialog with him. Now she turned to him, all anger forgotten, and waved her hands frantically in a silent plea for help, but he pressed his lips together and shook his head and she knew why: anything he said now would be heard by Ink. She'd have to wing it.

Hermione turned back to the card and tried to force something through Narcissa's voicebox, which had suddenly shut down on her. "Uh—uh—hello." She winced at how horribly wooden it sounded. In her peripherals she saw Lucius get up and noiselessly leave the room.

"It was my wish to hear from you sooner, but this will certainly do." His voice growled along the way a man's voice did when he wanted to fuck you and didn't bother hiding it. "How are you my dear? Nothing wrong, I hope?"

"Not–not really." Oh, god, she sounded like she was about to puke. Hermione wasn't much of an expert but she was fairly certain that was _not _the way to a man's heart. She cleared her throat and tried again. "I _had _wanted to call on you earlier as well… but things have been… hectic."

"Oh? How so?" He didn't sound concerned so much as hungry at the prospect of finding her vulnerable.

Hermione swallowed and tried to ignore Lucius as he reentered the room, scribbling furiously at something in his hands. "It's—just—just that—" And now Lucius was making an annoying tapping noise. She looked up to shoot him a glare, only to see he was holding up a notepad on which he'd written, _We've been fighting._

"Lucius and I have argued," she said automatically, glancing into his face. He nodded, and flipped the notepad to the next page. Dutifully she read, "He was staring at another woman." She felt the heat rise in her cheeks and she gave him a look, she wasn't sure if it was quizzical or angry, but his face remained blank as he flipped the page again. "He's… such a terrible cad."

She frowned at him, but his face remained unreadable, deadpan. Surely Lucius wasn't _apologizing?_ Because this had to be the most bizarre, convoluted apology in human history, and in her deepest mind she knew he really didn't have to—and if _she _knew that, then he would, too. She searched his eyes, looking for something, some hint of emotion, but he'd already flipped to the next page and, knowing time was short, she hurried onto the next lines. "How dare he? After everything I believed it was dreadfully obvious that—that he cared for me. But clearly not, because he dared glance at another woman. I'll admit that I have simply grown tired of him."

She tried to catch his eye, to communicate to him that this was absolutely _not _the truth, damn it, but he was busy scribbling out a few more (undoubtedly depressing) lines. It occurred to her, then, just how calculating this all was, how terribly manipulative, and suddenly she _knew _what he was doing—he was trying to make her feel bad! Ooh, he _was _a cad for playing her emotions like this, wasn't he? But she couldn't muster any anger towards him. No, she was too busy feeling dreadful at herself for losing it earlier, and that _had_ been his intention, hadn't it?

Ink spoke, providing her a much-needed distraction. "Of _course _you have, my dear," he said, and his words dripped dark honey. "Lucius isn't the sort of man any woman should have to marry, or be anywhere near, for that matter. But I'm sure you know that."

Lucius held up the notepad. "Yes," Hermione read, "I sometimes wish I could escape his evil clutches." Ooh, no, he was being ridiculous now, and when she glanced up she saw he'd pinned on that droll smirk of his. She glared at him, but his grin didn't flicker and he tapped insistently on another line. "I wish someone would take me far away from this awful man and"—she stammered, glowering at the line he'd written (_"and his massive cock!")_ and improvised wildly around it—"and all the rest."

She tried to kick him under the coffee table, but even shaking with suppressed laughter he still managed to move deftly out of the way.

"You are welcome here," Ink purred, and the card glowed suddenly green. "You need only speak the password and I shall spirit you away."

Lucius had scrawled something else and was tapping at it insistently, but Hermione, sure it was some other would-be witticism, ignored him. He slapped the notepad, loud enough for Ink to hear if he was listening, but she pressed on determinedly, quite sure she'd be able to come up with her _own _lines from now on—and they'd be much better, too. "What is the password?"

By the time Lucius had stood up and begun to reach for her, it was too late. She'd already felt the hook in her navel and, in the frozen second it took for the Portkey to whisk her into the nether, she looked up and saw the frozen panic in his face, as well as what he'd written.

_DON'T SAY ANYTHING!_

* * *

**A/N: ****IF THERE ARE ANY READERS OUT THERE WHO KNOW FLUENT CONVERSATIONAL FRENCH, PLEASE PM ME.  
The sex-leaden Lumione oneshot I'm working on right now requires a bit of French dialog, and my French is worse than Hermione's.  
**

**Anyway! Oh dear. I feel almost as if I should apologize for all this interfering plot. There were _even more_ feels in this chapter but I hope to god it was a little better than the last! ******I know it might feel a bit rushed right now but don't worry, it slows down a bit, and I've planned out some proper Lumione bonding soon x ****

**I liked the first version of this chapter I wrote better, but since my computer ate it, this angry re-write will have to do.**

**So what do you think? Please pretty _please_ let me know in a review!**


	21. Chapter 21

**Warning: Intense themes ahead, including sexual assault. It isn't the most explicit stuff ever written but nonetheless if you prefer to skip it, hit Ctrl + F and search "Merlin's beard," it's safe to read from that section onward.**

* * *

This had to be the longest Portkey in the history of wizardkind. Hermione felt as if she were hurtling through space and time for a millennia. These things generally took longer than apparition, it was true, but this one in particular went on and on so bloody long that she was able to control her initial shock and analyze the situation before the chaos reordered itself around her.

Ink believed he was transporting Narcissa Malfoy. He would not be expecting Hermione Granger, and that would give her some small advantage. He'd be waiting for her on the other side, no doubt; perhaps in his own home, in which case she might manage to somehow escape and gage the location. If she could just get an address, perhaps steal a bit of mail, that would give her something to track down later… Or would he have brought her to some public place? A train station perhaps, ready to make good on his promise to spirit her away? Or _worse_, would he have teleported her directly to his bedroom?

She groped through the whistling void for her wand, finding it in the pocket of her dressing gown and gripping it tight. She had to be prepared for anything.

When her feet hit the floor (shortly followed by her hands and knees), she didn't expect to find herself in what might as well have been an Azkaban cell.

"_Expelliarmus_."

And just like that, the fight was over. Her wand went whistling out of her hand before she'd even gathered her bearings.

_"__Shit!"_ She winced and shoved herself off the floor. The skin had been abraded off her palms and a stream of blood was gathering in Narcissa's lifelines. She glanced around. Everything was lit in dim fire; she could make out four walls, three of stone and one of old iron latticework, and beyond it, a narrow aisle that vanished into darkness at both ends. On closer inspection it looked to be some sort of converted wine cellar. None of it was familiar. The stonework wasn't consistent with Hogwarts or the Ministry or any other sort of place she'd been.

Wherever she was, she was lost.

Something moved into her line of vision. A shadow in the torchlight—and she immediately knew who it was, because he must've been nearby if he'd been speaking into the catcalling card. With a flick of his wrist, he'd levitated her wand from where it had landed in the aisle, plucking it out of the air. He didn't speak. His green eyes scanned her with the same sort of dark interest as before, when she'd first seen him in person back at Malfoy Manor, back when her worst fears had all been Lucius.

Strange how things could change.

Someone else was approaching, too; quiet footsteps were echoing off the damp stone walls.

"Where am I?" Hermione demanded, and praised Merlin when Narcissa's voice came out strong.

Ink didn't answer. Of course he didn't; he just raised his eyebrows and pocketed her wand as another, shorter figure walked into view. Hermione zeroed in on the new silhouette and met a pair of mellow, unassuming eyes.

"It didn't take long," Ink said to Raleigh, who gave her a brief once-over.

"Good," Raleigh said. Hermione was struck by the weird realization that this man had cut Lucius open with a knife. In the end Ink really didn't matter; he and the rest of the faceless men at that party had all been marionettes, all dancing under the hands of this mild-faced puppeteer. Chilling to think that if she'd met him on the street, she would have never pegged him as a deranged drug-lord… a carpet salesman, perhaps, or a bookkeeper… "I want to know where Draco's gone. And Lucius too, come to that. He isn't at the Manor or any of his known properties, she must've come from his new hideout. See if you can't persuade her to discuss it."

And without a single word to her, Raleigh left. She heard a distant door open and close, and gaged it to be nearly thirty meters off to the left—her escape route, if she could ever get there.

Ink leaned against the iron bars of her cell, flashing her a lecherous smile through the gaps, and she'd never thought she'd want to hit someone more than she had the day of Buckbeak's would-be execution. But god, did he look so much more punchable than even Draco just then…

"We could bypass all this uncomfortable business, you know," he told her. "If you'd let me know where your son, or even your _cad _of a husband was hiding, this could all be finished in a few minutes."

The Polyjuice would probably last her another three hours, if she was lucky. So that gave her three hours to escape, or they'd figure out her true identity… and at that point she doubted they'd let her live.

"Fergus!" she screamed.

Ink looked at her as if she'd gone mad, but she ignored him, waiting with dying hopes for a response.

Ink opened his mouth to speak again—but Hermione cut him off with a shout of, "Harriot!"

Still nothing. Couldn't they hear her? She was still Polyjuice'd into Narcissa—and although Fergus and Harriot had been given strict orders to keep an eye on Draco no matter what, surely Lucius' first instinct had been to call on the elves to find her?

"Francis?" It came out as more of a question; she knew Francis had been grievously injured by Fiendfyre and wasn't surprised when she didn't get a response.

Ink was smiling now, having realized what she was doing. "Oh my dear," he chuckled, "did you seriously think we hadn't anticipated your calling on an army of elves?" He tapped the iron lattice, and the _ping _of metal seemed to go straight to her gut. "This place is as well-warded as a Gringott's vault. You won't be getting out unless you're _let _out."

Hermione had to fight the urge to cave in on herself; it was important she hide her dismay. She would've been lying if she said she hadn't banked on making her escape via elf. Without their help, and with her wand in Ink's pocket, she was a dead woman walking.

"You're being terribly dull, you know," Ink went on. "Where is Draco? Tell me that, and no harm will come to you."

"Never!" she shouted at him, knowing what was coming, knowing it would happen even if she volunteered the truth under Veritaserum.

Ink smiled grimly and raised his wand.

* * *

Two hours, fifty-eight minutes, and twenty-seven seconds later, Hermione transformed back into herself.

She didn't notice the change when it happened. Her mind had gone fuzzy after countless applications of the Cruciatus, innumerable jinxes, and an incongruous number of _Baubillious_ hexes, which seemed to be one of Ink's favorites. Before that point Hermione hadn't realized just how awful even small electric shocks could be. He really was a sick man, Ink—there was something very wrong with him.

Still, she counted herself lucky. In all that time he hadn't entered her cell, though he had banished her robe about an hour ago and made all manner of degrading and perverted comments about her body and sexuality. Fortunately the veil of her disguise had spared her most of the psychological torture.

All in all she was proud of herself for holding her ground, though she could hardly say she hadn't caved a little: at one point she'd revealed that Lucius had indeed been hiding out with her, and knew about the catcalling card. It wasn't much, seeing as Ink thought she was Narcissa and still didn't have the fuzziest clue as to where Lucius was, but the small concession seemed to double Ink's enthusiasm. Hermione made a mental note to lobby for the illegalization of _Baubillious_ as soon as she got out of there.

_If_ she got out of there.

Ink was a talker. She got the impression that he wasn't terribly good at his job, not quite Death Eater material, and he made up for it with a load of hot air. A bit like Draco, then. And his Cruciatus was about a fifth the strength that Bellatrix's had been. Initially Hermione had engaged him verbally, intending to lure him across the bars so she had a fighting chance at disarming him and escaping, but after a while she realized it was useless: he was smarter than he seemed, or at least more seasoned than she cared to think about.

He was in the process of asking "Where is Draco?" for the umpteenth time when he stopped suddenly, mid-sentence. Hermione collapsed against the far wall, all sense of modesty forgotten as she tried her best to gasp in air through the pain; surely he'd cracked a rib with that last spell: breathing shouldn't have hurt so much.

"What in god's name?"

Some still-functioning part of her brain picked up on the change in his tone, and she raised her eyes, squinting at him through a veil of sweat. He was gawking at her in open astonishment.

"You…" He blinked out of his shock; those sinister eyes narrowed and for the first time he looked angry. "I'll be damned. You're a _fake_. That bloody rat-bastard…"

"What?" Hermione rasped; she still didn't quite understand what was happening. The word devolved into a scream as Ink levelled a particularly brutal _Crucio_ on her.

_Still weaker than Bellatrix,_ she noted. It didn't occur to her how bizarre the thought was; she was just hopeful that Ink's lack of skill meant she wouldn't be in danger of going mad, at least not anytime soon.

"Who are you?" he demanded. The spell lifted briefly and Hermione was back to gasping. "Tell me!"

"I'm Narcissa," Hermione said, nonplussed, and then fell back in horror as Ink walked right through the iron bars of her cell as if they were made of smoke; he crossed the tiny space faster than she thought possible and then hands were on her throat, lifting her to her knees and shaking her violently.

"Who _are _you?" he snarled. "Where is Narcissa?"

She realized, then, what must have happened.

Choking, tears tumbling down her face, she wondered in the back of her mind how on Earth he expected her to answer when he was cutting off her air like this. She struggled; her nails scrabbled at his hands and arms, she tried to get at his eyes but she was growing weak, and it was only when she felt herself go limp that he released her, shoving her back onto the damp stone.

He stood over her, fists and jaw clenched, as she coughed and massaged her throat.

Then his demeanor shifted. "Well, I can't fault Lucius' tastes," he said, and his voice was much lower than before. Hermione felt the floor of her stomach drop out. "You're a pretty thing, aren't you?" He knelt again and reapplied his hands to her, and although he was using much less force, his touch was somehow far more dangerous; with a nauseating jolt she felt his palms sliding up her arms, grabbing her shoulders and forcing her onto her back. She was below him and suddenly horribly aware of how vulnerable she was, helpless and completely nude—she tried to cover herself, but he easily brushed aside her attempts as if she were no stronger than a child. "I swear I've seen you before…"

She struggled, but god, she felt so weak, so _humiliated_ as he lowered his head and laid a vicious bite onto her breast. His hands were moving on her, and no matter how she grabbed and shoved and kicked and writhed like some animal in a snare, fueled by an upsurge of horrified adrenaline, she may as well have been fighting the wall for all the good it did.

He was forcing himself on top of her, the weight of him pinning her to the floor, and somewhere, almost incongruously loud over all the frantic breathing, she heard a zip being undone. The innocuous little noise triggered a fear in her so powerful it seemed to dwarf the distant terrors she'd experienced in the War.

"NO!" she screamed. "STOP! NO!"

Her struggling turned to pure violence; she didn't care that her thrashing was hurting her too—all she knew was that within the next few seconds she needed to injure him, grievously, or perhaps even kill him if she could. She tried in earnest to claw at his face, tried to knee him in the groin, but her panic only seemed to encourage him. He pinned her wrists by her ears and tried to pry her knees apart with one of his own; as he leaned in, panting in her ear like a dog, she lunged forward and bit him as hard as she possibly could. Her teeth caught him on the neck and as her mouth filled with blood her ears rung with his responding howl of pain. He jerked away from her, and she got a final look at his expression of pure rage before he slammed her head into the ground, and all she could see were pinpricks of light.

"You fucking _cunt!"_ No-one had ever spoken to her like this, barring Bellatrix or perhaps Fenrir, though there was something tremendously worse about that level of fury coming from a man who had her pinned naked to the cold, dirty floor. He brought his face close to hers; she could feel his hot blood dripping onto her cheek from the bite-wound she'd inflicted, and felt an intense urge to vomit. "I'm going kill you for that. But first I'll make you beg for it."

She knew she wouldn't be able to cry or plead her way out of this one. That had never been an option. She tried fighting again, but the blow she'd sustained to her head had been more debilitating than she thought: her arms felt de-boned and wobbly, and her head must've weighed two tons. She could barely move.

_Not like this_, she thought, as Ink moved around on top of her like some vulture about to rip into a carcass, _it can't end like this. Not here, not like this. _She had one chance left. There was nothing else for it. She had to take it.

"I'm Hermione Granger," she choked out. "You—you can't—you have to stop! I'm _Hermione Granger!"_

He paused. She held her breath.

"Hermione Granger," he repeated slowly.

She chanced a look at him. He was glaring down at her, the image of suspicion and disbelief, but deep in the pale green she could see the smallest traces of doubt beginning to form. The sight rekindled a little hope in her chest—hope at which she immediately and desperately grabbed.

"You said you recognized me," she babbled. "Well, you should! I'm famous from the War! I'm Harry Potter's best friend and he knows I'm here, he was there during the catcall, he has a Tracer Charm on me and the whole Auror department has been monitoring this case from the beginning and—and all I had to do was buy him time to Trace me here—"

In her heart of hearts, she hadn't expected it to work. She really hadn't. She could hear the fear in her own voice, loud enough to make her cringe, and was strongly reminded of when Lucius had her cornered just like this, strapped to the bed in Shorecliff, hemmed in and desperate and so, so guilty. _Lucius_ hadn't bought her lies then. But Ink, turned out, was not as discerning.

When he pulled away, the shock and relief were so strong it brought tears to Hermione's eyes. Had he really believed her? He must have, at least about her identity. Polyjuice couldn't be doubled up, after all. And clearly the threat of a sting operation was enough to persuade him not to molest her—she'd bet all her earthly possessions that he'd have to consult with Raleigh for further instructions. God, she wanted to curl in on herself and crawl back into the corner of her cell, but what she hadn't realized was that he'd only pulled away in order to draw back and strike her across the face.

Her own cry of pain and shock sounded alien to her ears.

"Where is Narcissa?" he snarled at her. She reached up—whether to touch the bruising on her face, or to try and push him away, even she didn't know—and he hit her again. She heard a ringing somewhere in the far distance, and thought about how strange it was, that some muggles hit each other for sport and called it _fun_. She felt him grab her hair, heard him mutter something—a spell perhaps—and felt the singularly distressing sensation of being unable to close her eyes. Ink's face hovered over hers, glaring down into her watering eyes, and she knew what was going to happen even before he cried _"Legilimens!"_

_Guard your mind,_ she thought, willing herself to calm down, to block him out. _Don't let him into your mind, control your emotions_—and then all of that went directly out the window when she felt him slip a hand between them to pinch the sensitive nub between her legs. _Hard._

She screamed; she thrashed; she very nearly projectile-vomited into the face hovering over her, the cruel eyes pressing into her mind. Scattered images rose to the surface: fighting the snake in Bathilda Bagshot's cottage; receiving her letter to Hogwarts; _no, I need to fight this!_; waking up all wet and cold from an hour of marinating beneath the Great Lake; glaring at Ron and Lavender Brown across the common room; insisting Harry take the potion that would allow him to pass through the black fire; _oh god, make it stop_; Draco hitting Fergus (she felt Ink latch onto the image, felt him drag at it); Draco shouting after Astoria as she fled the kitchen; Scorpius howling in his little prenatal viewing tank (and Ink liked that one, he lingered on it for quite a while); Lucius sliding up behind her in the window-seat, breathing softly against her neck; Lucius and his false Narcissa in the bath, and ooh, Ink was a sick man, forcing her to replay _that _memory—Hermione tried again to master herself, to throw him out, but he must've realized because he gave her a threatening look, and she felt his fingertips jab between her legs. That was enough to derail her all over again.

He pressed further into her brain, combing her most recent memories, flicking through them so quickly she could barely keep up—then everything seemed to stop, and the image of Harry sprang out of nowhere, announcing that he'd just seen Narcissa leave for Arles.

And that was it.

The pressure in her mind and on her body was lifted as Ink withdrew, leaving her lying there staring up at the ceiling. She found she could blink again, and she squeezed her eyelids shut, fighting back a wave of tears that had nothing to do with her sore, dry eyes.

Ink righted and refastened his clothes and left without a word.

Merlin, what had her life become? How had she gone from worrying about her stagnating career to _this?_ She felt as if she were frantically spinning dishes, each deadlier than the last: if she let even a single one fall, the consequences would be dire. And one of the dishes had fallen. Two, actually—she'd given away Narcissa and Scorpius both. And all of this madness was of her own creation, all rooted in that damnable moment she decided to take on Lucius Malfoy by herself…

If only he was here now.

She'd just gotten properly into her cry when the feeling of something light falling onto her chest startled her out of it. She jerked up, realizing at once that Raleigh was standing over her, and that he'd thrown her dressing gown at her in a silent bid for her to cover up. Ink was conspicuously absent.

"He's being reprimanded," Raleigh explained, correctly interpreting Hermione's wild, searching gaze. He was as tranquil as ever; as she clawed the robes on he offered her a wan smile. "It seems there's been some confusion about your identity." He offered her a hand. "Nothing that can't be undone, I'm sure."

She stared at his palm, and then slid away from it, using the wall to hoist herself onto shaky legs, being sure her robe was fastened tightly shut. She hugged herself against the cold and against his unnerving gaze. Why was he so fucking _calm?_ "What are you going to do to me?"

He raised his eyebrows. "I'm going to let you go," he said simply, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world.

She didn't dare allow herself to hope. Not on the words of this man. "Oh really?" she said, and she couldn't help the scathing tone. "So I can just leave now, no questions asked?"

"I believe the questions have already been asked," Raleigh replied with a slight smile. "We have no further use for you." He held out his hand again, beckoning. "Come along, then."

Again, she drew away, eyeing him mistrustfully. "You're just going to let me walk out of here—"

"Heavens no," Raleigh said with a gentle smile, "What would the good people of Lisvane think of you, wondering the streets in nothing but your dressing gown?"

It took her a few moments to realize he'd essentially given away their location. _Lisvane._ It didn't sound familiar but she could figure it out easily enough—she glanced quickly at him, wondering if he'd realized his mistake. His smile broadened, and he beckoned again. She got the impression that if she didn't accept this time something terrible was going to happen: he had the distinctive air of a man who tended to snap without warning…

Reluctantly, she inched closer, reaching out and placing a wary hand into his. It was remarkably soft.

As soon as she'd done it, he grabbed her and jerked her in, his other arm winding itself around her, clamping her to him; she felt the tip of his wand press into her back and, over the sound of her startled gasp, she heard him mutter an incantation.

She remembered a splitting pain, like a knife's edge across her skin. Then everything went blank.

* * *

Something was not right. Not right at all.

Someone was touching her. Someone was rubbing their hand all over her face. Why was someone touching her face? Why did they feel so warm when she was so cold? Why in god's green earth did everything smell like _pepperoni?_

"Merlin's beard!"

Hermione scrunched her noise against the offensive noise and turned away from its source, trying to hide her face from—from what, exactly? Why was she so bloody cold? Why was she wet? Was it raining? God, was she lying out in the _rain?_

She felt new hands touching her, grabbing her shoulders and she recoiled, curling into a ball on what she ascertained to be a bed of weeds. Something—or rather, some_things _were scurrying around her, and the movements were decidedly inhuman. She felt the warm pepperoni-hand touch her again, sliding up her cheek, and realized it wasn't a hand at all: it was a _tongue_.

Hermione opened her eyes. For a moment all she could see were the brambles right in front of her face, until a pair of very big, very concerned ice-blue eyes moved in front of them, blocking her whole range of vision. A large pink tongue darted out and caught her on the end of the nose, and she instinctively reached out and wrapped her arms around the great, furry neck.

"Oh Belgium," she sobbed, her voice hoarse and broken. The dog whimpered and tried to climb into her lap, but was suddenly pulled away—and the sad puppy-dog eyes were replaced by a pair of larger, angrier ones.

_"__Finite!"_ Fergus snapped, waving a hand at Belgium. Nothing happened; the dog cocked her head at him, wiggling her butt and scooting right up to his long toes before licking him smack-dab across the face. He made a disgusted noise, wiped off the pepperoni-scented saliva and shoved her away. "Not me, you stupid mutt, the girl! Check the girl!" Belgium glanced at Hermione only long enough to bestow yet another slobbery kiss on her before trying, again, to shimmy up to Fergus. He rolled his great eyes and shoved her back again. "Good. Yes, fine, you did well, now go away! Go patrol! No, I've already given you a pepperoni, you literal bitch, yes, congratulations on actually doing your job for once—and never mind I've got to check you for a Confundus every minute of the day! Now go find some rabbits to chase. Are you listening to me? _Go!"_

Belgium laid back her ears and scampered out of view. With some effort, Hermione rolled over and saw the tall, proud hedgerow that surrounded Malfoy Manor stretching away to her left. Belgium had vanished into a gaping hole at the base; it seemed she'd chewed and dug under the brush to get out.

"Ruined the hedge," Fergus muttered angrily to himself. He waved a long-fingered hand and the hole was immediately filled with springy new growth. He turned back on Hermione and fixed her with his critical eyes. "She did find you, though. That's something. Now what the blazes happened to you? Didn't you think to call for me? Good lord, how long have you been out here?"

"I—I don't know," Hermione said, wishing he hadn't sent Belgium away. She hated being alone with Fergus at the best of times; now, soaked and freezing to the bone with naught but a bathrobe to cover her, disoriented and more than a little distraught, she wasn't sure she could do it. "Can we just go inside please? I'm cold."

His frown deepened, and he regarded her quietly for a few seconds, but for once, she got the impression it wasn't with disdain or disapproval. Wordlessly, he held out his hand. Hermione had a sudden flashback of Raleigh standing there in her cell, hand outstretched in just the same way, but shook it off. _Not here, not now_. Anyway, there was nothing at all soft about Fergus' bony little hand, which fairly crushed hers as he apparated them out of the rain and directly into the manor.

The transition from the hard, gray light of the outdoors to dim firelight was a shock to Hermione's eyes, and it took her a moment to orient herself. Fergus had brought her to a small, cozy sitting room of sorts, decorated in deep earth colors, and in the armchair by the roaring hearth sat a very startled Astoria, who'd just spilled her cup of tea onto the book she'd been reading. A bassinette stood at her elbow with same domed case over it as Scorpius' incubator back at St. Mungo's.

"Hermione?" Astoria made to stand up, but Fergus was upon her in seconds, forcing her back down onto the cushions and clearing the spilled tea with a wave of his finger.

"You're not to strain yourself for the next eight to twelve weeks!" he snarled at her. "And what is this you're reading? _Voyages with Vampires?" _He waved the book—Gilderoy Lockhart winking roguishly on the cover—in her face. "Do you realize this reading is far too stimulatory? My god, woman, do you ever want your vagina to heal?! I told you to read _Groß's Guide to Healing_ _through Relaxation _and so help me god if you do not get it done by 5 o'clock sharp this afternoon, you will find yourself woefully unprepared for the pop quiz I have—"

"Fergus, _stop!"_ Hermione heard herself shouting, cutting him off mid-word. _"Please!_ Please. Just stop." She felt her legs wobble dangerously underneath her and, fearing she may collapse right there on the spot, she hurried over to the nearest couch—which happened to be directly across the fireplace from Astoria—and slumped down onto it, burying her face in her hands.

There was silence in the room, then a sudden, telltale snap of disapparation. Hermione looked up to confirm Fergus had gone, and she would've felt ashamed of her outburst if she hadn't been so relieved to be rid of him, at least for the moment. She met Astoria's eyes, still somewhat glazed with shock, gazing at her like she was unable to process what she was seeing.

There was a beat of silence. Then they both said at once, "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Astoria hastened to answer the mutual question. "Merlin, never mind about me! Lucius said you'd been captured, he's—he was frantic—"

"They let me go." A sick feeling twisted suddenly in her gut. "Astoria, is that Scorpius? Did they let you bring him home?"

Astoria blinked, glancing from the bassinette to Hermione and back. "He—yes, they let me bring him, I'm a licensed mediwitch and perfectly qualified to care for him here, but even if I wasn't Lucius would've dragged us and an entire medical team here with him, it was like he expected us to get attacked any moment—he had about a million elves out on the lawn casting wards—Hermione, I don't understand, what—what _happened_—?"

But Hermione was already standing up. "Where's Lucius?"

Astoria gaped at her. "Hermione, you're injured—"

"I have to see him. I have to tell him—"

"You've got bruises everywhere—" Astoria pushed herself out of her armchair, wincing a little but otherwise moving quite normally. She intercepted Hermione in the middle of the hearthrug and walked her back to her couch. "Let me—"

"You don't understand," Hermione tried to brush her off, "I have to tell him, I have to warn him—where is he?"

"Shorecliff. And don't bother trying to head there now, you can't apparate or floo from here and with all these wards, it'll be impossible getting back in on your own, anyway Lucius said he'll be right back with Draco and you're more likely to miss him trying to chase him down—Hermione!" Astoria gasped as Hermione flopped back down onto the couch and burst into tears. "Are you in pain? Can you breathe?"

It took Hermione a moment to compose herself enough to answer. "I—I'm fine. I'm not hurt. I just need Lucius. I need to tell him." _Tell him I told them everything._

She could almost feel the clock ticking, counting down the hours and minutes and seconds it would take for Raleigh to act—to find Narcissa. And if he found her… if he hurt her… there would be only one person to blame.

Hermione sat on that couch for an eternity. She vaguely registered Astoria healing the bruises on her face and neck and dragging Scorpius' bassinette over so she could watch him flail his miniscule fists at the ceiling. Astoria was mostly silent, keeping her focus on Scorpius, for which Hermione was grateful as she didn't feel capable of upholding any sort of conversation. Every so often she glanced out the window at the dreary landscape, once or twice catching sight of a large, ghostly figure strutting along the top of the hedgerows. She wondered blearily if Fergus had made good on his word to keep Fairway away from Crookshanks.

About a quarter hour had passed, possibly more, before something broke the fragile silence.

A sudden scratching on the door made both of them jump. "That dog," Astoria sighed, starting to rise again, "don't worry, I'll send her off—"

"No," Hermione said, her voice breaking, "can you let her in? Would it be okay?"

Astoria frowned, but nodded, cracking open the door so the dog could slip inside. Belgium made a beeline right for Hermione and without so much as a hiccough in her step, she climbed right up into the couch and draped her torso over Hermione's legs, leaning most of her not-so-insubstantial weight into Hermione's chest. Oddly, the pressure somehow allowed Hermione to breathe a little easier. She wrapped her arms around the dog and Belgium snuggled into her embrace, like she knew exactly what to do to comfort her. Hermione had to take a moment to compose herself before trying to talk again. "Astoria, you—you wouldn't happen to know where my cat is, would you? I left him here with Bel."

Astoria shook her head and resettled herself next to Hermione on the couch, giving Belgium a cursory scratch on the head. There was a moment's heavy pause, and then Astoria laid her hand overtop Hermione's and murmured, "If you feel okay, while we're waiting, I can treat your injuries."

Hermione frowned at her. "You already have."

"Some of them, yes," Astoria said, very carefully. Another long silence. "But… if you have any other injuries… it's important you get medical attention right away." She paused. "And if you need one, I can also get you a Moon Potion."

It took Hermione a long minute to figure out why in the hell Astoria was offering her what was essentially wizarding emergency contraception. Then it hit her. "Oh," she said, "no, it wasn't… I wasn't." She swallowed hard. "They didn't. Really, my face was the worst of it."

Astoria looked at her very seriously, but to Hermione's relief she only nodded and patted her hand. "Lucius will come back soon," she said in a soft, reassuring voice. "I'm sure Fergus just left to tell him you're here. They'll be back. You're safe here. We're safe."

* * *

**A/N: 84 FUCKING DAYS. I'm sure I've just set a record. If there's anyone still reading, yes, I am duly ashamed of myself and have whipped myself through the streets for my transgressions, as is tradition.**

**So here we are—just a few more chapters to go! I _will _finish this story, and I _will _try to be waaaay quicker about it. But if you're ever wondering if I've gone off and died, check my profile, I update it regularly so at least you know I'm still thinking of you!**


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